


to face unafraid, the plans that we made

by Marezelle



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Christmas, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, New Year's Eve, by which I mean that the plot is similar but nothing that happens after waterloo happens here c:, vaguely Carol (2015) inspired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-02-19 17:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13127838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marezelle/pseuds/Marezelle
Summary: The annoying thing about it all was that they had every reason to be worried. Boston had a nightlife for folks like him, of course. Eric knew which bars to go to, and where to avoid. He knew how to act during the day at work and what he could get away with around Park Square. And sure, he was doing his damned best to make it as a professional baker, but that didn’t mean he was supposed to offer to bake pies for grown men. Especially professional athletes. Tall, blue-eyed men who could probably break him into a thousand tiny pieces if they tried. Men like that weren’t supposed to buy boys like him lunch.That was what made Eric feel a little brave. If this was all a ruse, it was a damn elaborate one. So he didn’t worry about it going wrong. Best case scenario, he’d go home tomorrow having won Jack over to his pie.He wasn’t going to allow himself to consider anything else.(Oh, who was he kidding.)





	1. Chapter 1

_Tuesday, Dec. 16, 1952_

 

Eric Bittle did not hate his job. It could have been better, but still, he did not hate it. Tuesday afternoons were not ordinarily so awful, either, but there were nine days left until Christmas and it went without saying that plenty of people had shopping left to do. Many of them came to Gilchrist’s department store, which meant that the bakery on the street level was bustling. Eric worked at the counter five days a week, which mostly involved selling the best almond macaroons in the city to exasperated shoppers and ecstatic children.

It was certainly Eric’s favorite job he’d had. Working the counter was _almost_ as good as actually working in the kitchen. And since it was the closest he’d gotten to a proper job at a bakery, Christmas crowds or no, he wasn’t going to squander the chance for future advancement. Besides, he even liked the cheerful Santa hats the entire Gilchrist’s employment staff were being made to wear. They made the kids smile, anyway.

Like the little girl whose mother had glared at him as she paid. “Here you go, ma’am,” Eric said, handing over a bag of peppermint candy. His smile was no match for the woman's furrowed eyebrows, but he did not stand down. Instead he winked at the girl, who giggled back at him. “Enjoy your purchases, and have a merry Christmas!”

He returned the little wave the girl gave him over her mother’s shoulder, grinning toothily. The next customer appeared across from Eric before he’d taken a breath. “Could I order a box of the macaroons?” the man asked, pointing over to the display case. He looked somewhat uncomfortable, and his voice carried an accent distinct from the Boston one Eric had grown accustomed to over the past few years.

“Of course, sir,” Eric said, plastering on another smile. Southern politeness sure came in handy when it came to less-than-amicable customers. “Just the dozen?”

The man blinked at him. His eyes were startlingly blue, and Eric couldn’t help it. He stared. “A dozen is fine,” the man said finally. He took his cap off and ran a hand through his hair. Eric didn’t allow himself to watch for more than a second before he’d turned to the girl boxing up the macaroons, and relayed the order.

Eric wrote the price on his pad of paper. “Would you like anything else, sir?” He looked up, and their eyes met.

“No.” They stared at each other until it became clear that the man was waiting for something. “Do I pay for it now?”

“Oh. Yes! That’ll be seventy-five cents.” Eric pushed the sales slip and a pen across the counter. “Those macaroons will be right up, mister.” The man set his hat down and took out his wallet, pulled out a dollar, and handed it over.

He returned the man’s change, and then handed over the bag containing the box of macaroons. “There you go, then. Enjoy your purchases, and have a merry Christmas!”

“Thanks. You too.” With a nod, the man turned and left. It wasn’t until he was already out the door that Eric realized the hat was still sitting there on the sales counter.

“Wait! Excuse me, sir!” Eric called, but it was too late. “Oh, goodness.” Eric picked up the hat. He smiled in apology to the next person in line, a father standing with his two sons. “Hopefully he comes back in for this. Otherwise I don’t think he’ll get it back.”

“Dad, was that Jack Zimmermann?” the older of the sons asked. The younger one wasn’t paying much attention, but this boy was craning his neck to see out the door. “I should’ve asked for his autograph!”

“Even if it were, Teddy, that wouldn’t have been very polite. Now, do you know what kind of candy you’d like? Or do you want a cookie like your brother?”

Eric blinked, and glanced down at the hat in his hand. A simple cap, nothing fancy. Perfectly serviceable, and well-made to boot. “Pardon me, sir. Jack Zimmermann, you said? Is that a name I should recognize?”

The man smiled politely. “Only if you’re a fan of hockey. He played for the Boston Bruins until a broken leg took him out near the end of the last season. I’m not certain that was him, though.”

“But Dad, it was!” The boy’s eyes were wide. He looked over at Eric. “He was the best player on the Bruins. Losing him ruined their shot at the cup!”

“Hockey, huh?” Eric smiled, and set the hat out of the way. The line was only getting longer, so he would deal with it later. “I can’t say I know much about hockey, but I have friends who do. Now, how about you tell your Daddy there what you’re going to be getting today?” The topic trailed off as they bought their brownies, and left. The line shifted forward again, and it began all over again. Another customer. More macaroons. Not nearly enough smiles from stressed shoppers, certainly not enough pie.

Except that the hat was still sitting behind the counter, waiting for Eric to do something about it.

 

**

 

Six hours later, Eric pounded his fist on his neighbors’ door. Against all better judgment he’d decided to bring the man’s cap home with him. He didn’t really trust his coworkers to get it back to its rightful owner, even if the man came in again. ‘Possibly a former hockey player’ wasn’t exactly a great descriptor, and the only other thing Eric had noticed was the man’s eyes. And Eric wasn’t about to go around advertising that he regularly noticed the exact shades of men’s eyes.

He had enough working against him, as it was.

When the door opened it was Adam who stood there grinning at him, tie loosened but still in his work suit. “Bits! It’s been a few days. Come on in.”

When he’d moved north from Georgia, he never could have imagined that someday he’d become best friends with his neighbors, at least ones who looked like this. Both were as tall and broad as the football players who’d bothered Eric all throughout high school. The difference was that these boys ate his pie and asked him about his day.

The north was a little weird, sometimes, but Eric was not complaining.

“Justin! Bitty’s here.” Adam tromped through the narrow foyer and into the sitting room. Tension released from Eric’s shoulders as he followed him in. Quiet chatter emanated from the radio and the Christmas tree in the corner glimmered; Adam's menorah stood prettily on the windowsill with five lit candles. There was clutter around the edges of the room as always, but Eric didn’t mind. Justin looked up from the book his nose was buried in, and a grin spread across his face.

He snapped the book shut and got up to pull Eric into a hug. “I was just thinking of going over to check in on you, Bits. How are you?”

“Oh, just fine. How about you boys?” He pulled back from the hug and moved to sit in his favorite armchair. Justin resumed his spot on their green couch, the one Eric wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, while Adam leaned against its arm.

“Ah, you know how it goes. The holidays make everyone busy,” Adam said. He removed his tie and tossed it over his shoulders.

“You wouldn’t believe how many presents I’ve bought this week." Justin massaged his temples with his fingers. “It gives me a headache. But what about you, Bitty? We're still on for Christmas dinner, yeah?”

“Of course, you know I’ll help you cook up a turkey. But I actually wanted to ask you about something else.” Eric leaned back in the chair and pursed his lips. “A man left his hat at the bakery counter today and left before I could call him back. I didn’t think much of it until a boy in line recognized him, however.”

“What, do you think it was a movie star or something?” Adam asked, straightening up. “Usually that kind of thing makes the newspaper, though, doesn’t it?”

Eric shook his head. “Not a movie star. Maybe a hockey player, though. Do either of y’all know the name Jack Zimmermann?”

Justin smacked a hand to his face. “Do we know the name Jack Zimmermann? Bitty, he was the center forward on the Bruins’ first line. _Of course we know who Jack Zimmermann is._ ”

“Bitty. Bits. Did he get it back?” Eric shook his head. “Did you keep the hat?” Adam paused. “Wait a minute. You let him leave without his hat?!”

“What did he buy? I shouldn’t be surprised he shopped there. Everyone loves those macaroons.” Justin slid his hand down from his forehead to tap at his chin. “Even professional hockey players, apparently. But you seriously didn’t stop him from leaving his hat?”

Eric crossed his arms. “If y’all are going to get smart with me, I’ll march back on over to my own apartment. Anyway, he bought a box of macaroons and yes, I still have the hat. And no, Adam, I did _not_ bring it over here with me,” he added, pointing at Adam until he closed his mouth sheepishly. “I need to figure out if it was actually him, though. I don’t suppose you two have any newspaper clippings with his picture in that collection of yours?”

“Do you even know us, Bits? Of course we do.” Justin stood and went over to the bookshelf. He took down one of several boxes from the highest ledge. “We’ve got everything the Globe, Post, and Herald have written on the Bruins in the last five years-”

“-and luckily for you, Justin’s organized it all by player and/or topic-”

“-and there’s a file on Zimmermann right here. Take a look.” Justin handed him a manila folder; a typed label taped to it read _Jack Zimmermann, 1947-._ Eric set it on the wooden coffee table in front of him, and opened it.

The folder was indeed filled with newspaper clippings, enough that they threatened to fall out. Eric had to shuffle through them a bit to find one with a photo. Finally, he gently picked one out from the pile. The face that stared up at him was the man from the bakery, sure enough. “So?” Adam asked, leaning in.

Eric just nodded. “It’s him.” He set the clipping back down carefully. “Well, it’s good that I know for sure, now. But I still have no idea how to get it back to him.”

The low murmur of the radio filled the room as they all thought about it. “Put up a sign outside the bakery?” Adam asked. “Hello Jack Zimmermann, we have your hat?”

“I suppose you could find the Boston Bruins’ office, but who knows if Zimmermann’s even still contracted to them.” Justin frowned. “There hasn’t been any news about him since the beginning of pre-season, when they announced that he was still on injured reserve. Four months is a long time not to hear anything, though.”

“The man in line after him said something about that. He said he broke his leg?”

Justin nodded solemnly. “It was during an away game up in Montreal. Zimmermann was checked and fell, hard. Took him out for the rest of the season, which pretty much ruined their chances making it to the next playoffs round.”

“Rumor has it that he hit his head pretty bad, too. But no one _really_ knows why he hasn’t come back on the team yet.” Adam said. He leaned in and quickly found a newspaper clipping, handing it to Eric. “It’s really a shame, because the Bruins aren’t doing so hot this year. They could use having him back.”

Eric skimmed the article in his hand. “This isn’t very nice,” he said, a crease forming between his brows. “It’s not his fault his leg was broken.”

“Yeah, well, some of the sports reporters around here aren’t very nice people, at least to Zimmermann. The guy kind of has a past? I guess he was a mess as a teenager, but he got it together enough to join the league.” Justin tapped his fingers on the coffee table, before pushing a round tin toward Eric. “That doesn’t really help us now, though. We can keep thinking about it. D’you want some cookies, Bits? My mom shipped them yesterday.”

“Why, thank you. Huh.” Eric accepted a gingerbread cookie and took a bite, contemplating. “I’d mail him his hat but he didn’t leave an address at the bakery, since it wasn’t a delivery order.”

Adam snapped his fingers. “Hey, do you think he has an account at Gilchrist’s? It’s not unlikely. If he does you could probably find his address if you went to management and explained everything. If they wouldn’t do it for a regular customer, they’ll at least do it for him." 

“That’s not… well, that’s not the worst idea. Thanks, Adam. I’ll check on that first thing in the morning.” He grabbed another cookie and took a bite before glancing one last time at the newspaper photo of Jack Zimmermann. “With any luck, he’ll have it back by Christmas.”

 

**

 

“Excuse me?” A man’s voice asked. Unmistakable, now that Eric had been running it through his mind for the last several days. He turned around from stacking macaroon boxes and once again found himself staring into the beautiful blue eyes of Jack Zimmermann. _Ah, damn._

The store had only been open ten minutes, but Jack—Lord, Eric didn’t need to be thinking of him using his first name—stood on the other side of the counter, hands in his pockets and an almost sheepish expression on his face. “Well hello, Mr. Zimmermann,” Eric greeted. He noticed that Jack was wearing his cap. “I see your hat made it back to you. I’m glad I was able to track you down.”

“Yes. Thank you. I was, uh, hoping you were one who sent it. Though I was a bit confused how you figured out who I was.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I guess you’re a Bruins fan, then?”

“Actually, no. My neighbors are, though. And a young boy was eyeing you as you left. Otherwise I never would have known the difference.” Eric smiled. Jack’s eyebrows raised, and Eric laughed. “Sorry to say, I don’t know the slightest thing about hockey. Well, except everything I’ve managed to retain from Adam and Justin. My neighbors, that is. I swear I’ve never met grown men as excitable about sports as they are, and I grew up in football country. They pitched a fit when I told them I’d let you go without your hat. They’re the ones who thought of looking up your account at the store, so really you can thank them. If they were here, that is.” He realized he was rambling, and promptly shut his mouth. “Anyhow. You’re quite welcome, Mr. Zimmermann.”

For the first time in their acquaintance, Eric realized, Jack was smiling. Just a little. “You can tell your neighbors I’m thankful, then. Though now I’m wondering…” He glanced around behind him, but the only other customer was an old woman squinting at the bakery’s display case. “If I could treat you to lunch? To thank you properly.”

Eric blinked, and automatically began to decline the invitation. “Oh, that’s not necessary-”

“-I insist.” Jack interrupted. Eric closed his mouth. Jack’s gaze remained steady. “I didn’t even know where I’d left my hat that day, so without you, I never would have gotten it back. It’s the least I can do. When’s your lunch break?”

“Oh. Well. I have an hour starting at noon?” Eric bit the inside of his cheek. “I didn’t pack a lunch today, anyway. I’ll just need to be back enough before one that I can put my coat up and get back down here.”

The corner of Jack’s mouth lifted slightly. “Great. We don’t have to go far, since we’ll be short on time. How about Filene’s?” He paused. “Unless you’d prefer somewhere else?”

Eric shook his head. He noticed then that his hands were practically gripping the edge of the counter, and immediately loosened them. “No, Filene’s sounds perfect.”

Jack grinned at him. “That settles it, then, Mr…” he cut off, and the frown reappeared so promptly it was almost comical. “Excuse me, I realize I never asked your name.”

“Oh, pardon me for not introducing myself earlier,” Eric said in a rush. He wiped his clammy hands on his pants. “Lord, I swear I’m not usually so rude. It’s Mr. Bittle. Eric Bittle.” With an earnest smile he extended his hand. Jack shook it once, firmly. “I look forward to our lunch, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“As do I. Well, I’ll see you at noon, Mr. Bittle.” Jack tilted the brim of his cap once at him and took a few steps backwards. Then his eyes flickered up, and the smile reappeared. “Nice hat, by the way,” he added, and Eric was confused until he reached up and remembered the Santa hat he was wearing. 

“Ha _ha_ , Mr. Zimmermann. We can’t all have nice caps like yours. Get on out of here, now,” Eric said with a grin, shooing him away, and Jack laughed before ducking out the door.

Oh, was Eric fucked.

 

The rest of the morning passed by agonizingly slow. Six days until Christmas, now, and the store was busier than ever. He was grateful that at least he didn’t work on the weekends. Even so, it was enough to deal with all the shoppers today. By eleven thirty he was tapping his fingers on the counter, anxious to get back to his locker so he could ditch the Santa hat, retrieve his coat, and come back down to meet Jack. If he was lucky, he’d even have enough time to fix his hair.

When Eric finally met Jack outside the bakery’s doors at 12:06, the other man was leaning against the building, watching the traffic past them. Eric was momentarily struck by the still expression on his face until Jack glanced over, noticed Eric, and immediately warmed. “You’re late,” Jack teased, tapping the glass face of his watch.

“Hush, you. Some folks have to travel all the way up to the tenth floor and back just to get their coat.” He straightened his scarf and hat, aware that neither were nearly as nice as the ones Jack wore. He didn’t think it showed, though. If anything, Eric had a gift for making the most of nothing. “Come on, then. Let’s make the most of this hour I’ve got off.”

They fell into step together down the sidewalk. “I don’t understand how you’re not freezing,” Eric said, casting a sidelong glance at Jack. “That coat is not _nearly_ warm enough for these Boston winters.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t cold, Bittle. Have you ever been any farther north than this?”

“I have not, thank you very much, nor do I plan to. I grew up down south, where the air doesn’t try to shatter your bones every time you step outside.” They stood at the curb, waiting to cross Washington Street. “I’ll admit I’m grateful you suggested eating at Filene’s. My original plan had been to hoof it down to the Waldorf across from the Common. I’ll gladly take walking one block over two.”

“It gets at least as cold as this where I grew up. Montreal,” he added. They crossed the narrow street, two bodies among a crowd of many.

“Well, that explains it. All you Canadians are crazy, I think. None more so than you hockey players.” He smiled at Jack to cue him in that he was teasing. “Though I won’t deny that I do enjoy going skating over on the Common.”

“Yeah?” Jack smiled back at him. “Don’t suppose you get to do much of that where you’re from, eh?”

“If you’re implying that I didn’t grow up on an icy pond, you’d be correct. But I’ll let you know I skated as a child, Mr. Zimmermann. It just wasn’t very often, is all.” They entered Filene’s department store and headed toward the elevators. “Down in Georgia, we have this thing called summer. It’s very nice. In fact, I could go for some of it right this moment. They could ban winter and I wouldn’t care in the least.”

“That’d change the holiday season, wouldn’t it? A white Christmas and all that.”

Their conversation tapered off as they entered a busy elevator, and rode it up to the eighth floor. In the restaurant they were seated at a table for four next to the windows, giving them a great view of Washington Street. “I must say, I never get tired of looking out windows higher than two stories,” Eric said, leaning just a bit to stare down at the cars and shoppers below. “Sometimes I wander around the upper floors at Gilchrist’s during my break, just to get a change of scenery.”

Jack glanced up from his menu and looked over. “It’s busy, I’ll give it that. I think these few blocks might be my least favorite part of the city.”

Eric raised an eyebrow. “So what brought you into the Gilchrist’s bakery then, Mr. Zimmermann?”

“My mother.” Jack looked back at his menu, then noticed Eric hadn’t opened his. His eyes narrowed. “I was serious about buying you lunch,” Jack said, raising his chin to point at the unopened menu.

“Oh, I know. I do have manners, I promise. It’s just that I already know what to order. Who comes to Filene’s and doesn’t get the chicken pot pie?”

“Ah. Well, I think we’re ready to order, then.” Jack signalled to a waiter, who scratched at a pad of paper as they each ordered the chicken pot pie and Eric asked for coffee. When he was gone, Jack looked back to Eric. “My mother likes the macaroons,” he said, and it took a moment for Eric to realize he was continuing the conversation from earlier.

“Doesn’t everyone? They’re delicious. That’s quite kind of you, though. Braving the terrible crowds for her. Do your parents live here?”

Jack shook his head. “They stay up in Montreal, mostly. But they came down a few days ago to spend Christmas with me.” His mouth twisted into a frown. “Otherwise I’d have been spending it alone, which I don’t mind so much. But they insisted. And it gives me an excuse to avoid Camilla. Uh.” He glanced down, and then off to the side. “My wife, I mean. For now. I mean that we’re, uh, divorcing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Eric murmured. He caught sight of the ring adorning Jack’s hand, a simple gold band. He didn’t know quite else what to say, but was saved but Jack looked back over from the window. The hand with the ring disappeared into his lap, arranging a napkin on his lap.

The waiter came and filled Eric’s coffee mug, and Eric began pouring cream and sugar into it. “So what about you?” Jack asked, after another minute. “Got a girl to spend the holiday with?”

Eric’s heart pounded, but he managed a smile anyway. “Heavens, no. No, it’ll just be me,” he said, tapping his spoon on the edge of the mug. “My family’s all still down south, too. But my neighbors invited me over for Christmas dinner. They’re my best friends, and neither of them are going home for the holidays. Adam’s from around Buffalo, and Justin grew up outside Toronto.”

“Good,” Jack said, taking a sip of his water. He met Eric’s eyes again. “They’re the hockey fans, yeah?”

Eric nodded. “Mmhmm. Adam played for Samwell University, actually. And in some junior league before that? I couldn’t tell you.”

Jack smiled, his eyes lighting up. “Samwell, you said? My mother went there. She’s a successful, ah, stage actress. She and my dad met one time he was in New York to play against the Rangers.” Eric raised an eyebrow. “The New York Rangers? They’re another team in the National Hockey League.”

“Oh, so your father played hockey too? That’s interesting.” Eric paused, noticing the strange bewildered look Jack was giving him. He resisted the urge to sink into his chair, but only barely. “Am I… missing something here?”

Jack’s eyebrows furrowed for a few moments. “I suppose not, since you don’t know hockey. My dad has quite a, uh, history. Ask your hockey friends about Bob Zimmermann some time. I’m sure they could do the tale better justice than me.”

Eric made a mental note to do just that. “Will do. So, Mr. Zimmermann. Your father played hockey, and you followed in his footsteps. Are the two of you close?”

Jack shrugged a little. “Yeah, I suppose so. Close enough, anyway.”

“That’s a good thing to hear, Mr. Zimmermann.” Eric thought of his own parents and frowned. “I’ll admit my own Daddy tried to get me to play football, just like he did. It didn’t go too smoothly, I’ll tell you that. He’s a high school coach down in Georgia.”

Jack watched him with an expression Eric couldn’t quite read. He seemed quite focused, however. “And your mother? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“It’s fine, Mr. Zimmermann. Yes, she’s still in Madison. I write to her when I can. Sometimes she even writes back.” He smiled at Jack, but there was little happiness behind it. “They weren’t too happy when I said I was moving up north, but I don’t know what they expected. I love Georgia, don’t get me wrong. I was born and raised there, Lord knows I sound like it. But I think life up here suits me a little better.”

“Even though it’s cold,” Jack said. Eric laughed, surprised, and Jack smiled back at him. “You don’t have to keep calling me Mr. Zimmermann, you know. Just Jack is fine.”

“Well then, just Jack. You can call me Eric.” They shared a look, the feeling of it fluttering in Eric’s chest, and then their food came.

Their pot pies were delicious, of course. Jack commented on it and Eric laughed, a little surprised. “I cannot believe you’ve never eaten one of these,” Eric said. “How long have you been in Boston?”

“About five years now. I started out playing in Montreal, for the Canadiens. They’re the team my dad played on, though, so I left when I could. Did a few years in New York after that, but that city was… a lot. Then I landed with the Bruins.” He neatly speared a piece of chicken with his fork. “My career in hockey is, uh… uncertain, right now. But I like it here.” He wasn’t smiling, but nor did he look distressed by sharing.

Eric hummed. “The boys did mention that injury of yours. I’m sorry I haven’t seen you play. They’ve been trying to take me along to a game with them for a while now.”

“You should go. I’m biased, but hockey’s a good time. Even when you’re just a spectator.” They continued eating in polite silence, until Jack asked, “So you said you came north to get out of Georgia, but how’d you end up in Boston? It’s not exactly close.”

Eric set down his fork and sighed. “Oh, that’s a story. First I went to Charlotte, North Carolina, and from there onto Washington. Next, I began working my way up the coast. I think I had it in my head that I was going to give New York a try, but then I got there and it was just so big. And I was all alone, hardly had anything to my name. So that wasn’t going to work. I could’ve backtracked down to Philly, but I was in a bar one evening and got into a conversation with a gentleman about Boston. I decided to give it a shot, so here we are.” Jack listened attentively, keeping steady-but-comfortable eye contact even as he tucked into the pot pie. “That was three years ago. It took a while, but I have an apartment I like and a job that pays the bills, so it’s all worked out.”

Jack nodded in understanding. “Do you like working at Gilchrist’s?”

Eric shrugged. “I like it enough. Honestly, I’d love it if I actually worked _in_ the kitchen, but none of the department stores are hiring for bakers right now.”

“You’re a baker?” Jack asked. Not skeptical, but interested, which was pleasing to note.

“I’d like to be. The one thing I can promise is that you’ll never eat a pie as good as mine north of the Mason-Dixon.” He kept a careful eye on Jack. “Learned everything I know from my mother and my MooMaw. Anyone in Morgan County’ll tell you that the Bittles bake the best pies.”

“Talent like that deserves to be seen. Or, well. Tasted.” Jack wore a completely serious expression, even though the syntax of what he’d just said was vaguely ridiculous. “There must be a bakery in Boston that will hire you.”

“Well, I don’t know. It’s not like I have much in the way of professional experience. And it’s a big pond, as they say. But I hope something works out eventually.” By this point, they had both finished most of their pot pies. Eric gestured at his. “These pot pies, for example? They’re delicious, and they’ve got the crust down, but don’t bother ordering a pie from the dessert menu here. I swear, the cooks here wouldn’t know a proper pie filling if it hit 'em in the side of the head.”

Jack laughed, and Eric felt his face warm at the sound of it. “Duly noted. Though I probably would never have known the difference.”

Eric stilled immediately. “Oh no,” he began solemnly. Jack's eyes widened. “Jack, if there is one thing in this world I cannot bear to let stand it’s a person not knowing their pie. You’ll have to let me bake you one. For the holidays.” Jack opened his mouth, possibly to refuse, but Eric barreled right through. “My oven’s been a little wonky lately but I’m sure I can pop in next door and use Justin and Adam’s. They never mind, seeing as I use their oven nearly as much as my own. And then you’ll just have to come pick it up. Or I could mail it to you. What’s your favorite kind of pie?”

Jack blinked. “I don’t think I have one,” he admitted. Eric fought off the itch to bring his hand to his heart. This poor, poor boy. “You really don’t have to, though,” Jack said. “The whole point of this was for me to thank _you_ for returning the hat.”

“And you just sat there and told me that pies like mine should be appreciated, so I’m going to make sure you appreciate at least one slice, Jack. Do you mind apple? I think I know a recipe you might just like, depending on how Canadian you _really_ are.”

Jack raised his eyebrows, but that smile had begun to creep back in. “I guess I can’t say no to that. But let me do you one favor, at least. Come bake it at my place.” Eric, who had been taking a sip of his coffee, paused with the mug to his lips. “Sunday afternoon. The kitchen at our place is pretty big, and my parents made plans that day anyway. Would that work for you?”

Eric swallowed his mouthful and set the mug down. Then he spoke without thinking about what was about to come out. “Well, I hardly think I can say no to that,” he smiled, but… oh. Most men didn’t invite short blonde boys over to their house to bake them pies before Christmas. Eric knew better than this, and yet. And _yet._

He’d felt safe, this entire time. Jack grinned at him, everything about his posture and expression relaxed. Not harsh, or intimidating. “Great. Write down your address, and I’ll come pick you up. How about two?" 

Lunch wrapped up from there, with Jack footing the bill and Eric thanking him too many times, probably. It was all too easy to continue their banter as Jack walked him back over to Gilchrist’s. To laugh and forget that he probably shouldn’t lean into Jack’s space as he did so. To take in with easy pleasure that Jack always smiled back.

 

**

 

“You’re doing _what,_ now?”

Eric set his shoulders as he rolled out cookie dough on Justin and Adam’s kitchen counter. It was Saturday afternoon, and he’d asked them to let him use their oven to make Christmas cookies, not that it had taken much begging. He hadn’t lied when he told Jack he baked over here as often as he did in his own home. “I’m going over to Jack Zimmermann’s home tomorrow afternoon to bake him a pie. Or a few, if I can manage it, and y’all know I can. I figured that I should tell you both about this just in case I don’t come back or something.”

Justin and Adam exchanged a look. “Bitty…” Justin began, frowning. “You know we love you, but is this a great idea?”

“Yeah, do you really think there’s a chance of this, you know. Not going so well?” Adam asked. He looked distinctly worried. “How did this whole thing even come up, anyway?”

“Well, I told you he came by to thank me for sending his cap back to him. And then we went out to lunch, because he wanted to thank me. We were chatting about things, you know, his hockey and all that, my job, and my baking came up. I offered to bake him an apple pie and he insisted that I use his kitchen.”

“And where, exactly, _is_ his kitchen?”

“Over on Beacon Hill. Not that far at all. Look, you two,” Eric said, putting down the rolling pin and turning to them. “I know how to be careful in this world, alright? Y’all know that. Not everyone’s nearly as great as the two of you boys. But I trust him. Jack’s different than most folks. I was teasing when I said I might not come back, you know.” Mostly, anyhow. “He’s very kind. Besides, if everything you boys told me about him is true, Lord knows he deserves a good pie.”

Adam leaned against the counter next to him and not-so-sneakily popped a sliver of cookie dough into his mouth, ignoring when Eric glared at him. “It’s less about what he deserves and who he is. His dad is famous for knocking people out, Bits. And hockey isn’t exactly known for being friendly.”

“You played hockey,” Eric pointed out. Adam reached for another bit of dough, and Eric slapped his hand away.

“Adam’s clearly an exception. Bitty, we’re not going to try to stop you.” Justin paused. “Or I’m not, anyway. But just make sure you’re not just seeing what you want to see here. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Eric exhaled and reached for the cookie cutters. “I’ll be fine. Will you feel better if you met him? He’s picking me up at two tomorrow afternoon. I’m sure y’all could play it off like you just want to meet him for his autograph.”

Adam and Justin looked at each other and grinned. “Getting to vet this guy while also getting another Bruins player’s autograph?” Adam asked.

“I dunno, Bits. That almost seems too good to be true,” Justin added. “You sure you just don’t want us to stalk you back to his place?”

Eric swatted at Justin. “You will do _no such thing._ Now clear out of here and let me cut out these cookies, unless you think you’re going to help out.” That got him two sets of hands raised in defeat, and both men shuffled out the door.

Except that Justin paused in the doorway after Adam had left. “I hope you’re right about him,” he said, and it only felt a little condescending. Like Eric couldn’t make decisions for himself.

He loved these boys, but he sure was tired of being worried over.

 

The annoying thing about it all was that they had every reason to be worried. Boston had a nightlife for folks like him, of course. Eric knew which bars to go to, and where to avoid. He knew how to act during the day at work, and what he could get away with around Park Square. And sure, he was doing his damned best to make it as a professional baker, but that didn’t mean he was supposed to offer to bake pies for grown men. Especially professional athletes. Tall, blue-eyed men who could probably break him into a thousand tiny pieces if they tried. Men like that weren’t supposed to buy boys like _him_ lunch.

That was what made Eric feel a little brave. If this was all a ruse, it was a damn elaborate one. So he didn’t worry about it going wrong. Best case scenario, he’d go home tomorrow having won Jack over to his pie.

He wasn’t going to allow himself to consider anything else.

(Oh, who was he kidding.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the elements in this story are certainly fictionalized, though I did research life in 1950s Boston to the best of my ability. Oh, have I researched. The most relevant things for this chapter are the department stores. Gilchrist’s was indeed a department store in Boston for many decades, well known for the almond macaroons served at the bakery on the first floor. Filene’s was just across the street, and the restaurant on the 8th floor was apparently known for their chicken pot pies. (Though I can’t speak to whether they even served regular pie; that comment about pie filling is all Bitty.) If anyone is familiar with Boston as it is today, both stores were at the intersection of Washington and Winter/Summer streets. The building with the Bath & Body Works was Gilchrist's, and Primark was Filene's. I haven't been in Boston since the summer so I can't tell you what's in the part of the Gilchrist's building that used to be the bakery, but I think it was a Dunkin the last time I was over there? Maybe?
> 
> ...anyway, this is like, the deepest and most extra level of background info, and certainly a weirdo niche interest area that I discovered, like, one week ago. None of this is necessary knowledge for enjoying this fic. Three cheers for history, though? L'Sweetpea would approve, I'm sure of it.
> 
> I hope to update again soon, though I do have a busy holiday ahead of me. But even if it takes a few weeks, I can’t imagine I won’t finish this by the end of January. Thanks for reading, and happy holidays to those celebrating. <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eric bakes a few pies, and receives a gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … yeah I’m a year late on this. My sincerest apologies. Truly. So I’m not gonna make any time-related promises about it, but I do promise that I’ll finish this story. Thank you to everyone who left a kind comment or a kudos; every word of this story is written for you. Though I rediscovered during the writing of this second chapter that I love this story, too. I've invested a fair bit of my heart into it, and I intend to see it through to the end.
> 
> It’s worth noting that I went back to the first chapter and altered a few lines to establish that Adam’s Jewish, and is celebrating Hanukkah as the story begins. You may want to reread the first chapter in order to reorient yourself for this one, but if you don't, that's the only change I've made. Happy reading!

_Sunday, Dec. 21, 1952_

 

The sound of a car horn startled Eric. He stole over to the window facing the street below and peered out in such a way that Jack _hopefully_ wouldn’t be able to see him if he glanced up. “Lord, he’s here.” He cast a look over his shoulder to the box he’d put together sitting on his kitchen table. “I hope I didn’t forget anything important.”

“Bits, we’ve spent the last hour watching you pack and re-pack half this kitchen. Everything will be fine. Besides, I’m sure Zimmermann probably has, you know, spoons.” Justin put a hand on his shoulder and guided him over to the coat rack. “Now get your coat on because I’m ready to go get Jack Zimmermann’s autograph.”

When Eric glanced over, Adam was holding the curtains out of his way and staring down at the street, too. “Well he has a nice car, that’s for sure. Guess I’m not surprised though.”

Eric flailed uselessly at him with one arm in his coat sleeve. “Get over here! What if he sees you?” He paused for a moment. “Do hockey players make a decent living?”

“Enough to live comfortably, sure. But I’m pretty sure Zimmermann down there is wealthy.” Justin picked up the box. “His parents are at least. Family money on both sides. Hey, did you know that Adam saw Alicia Zimmermann perform in New York once?”

“Yeah, it was right before we went to Samwell. She was in _Carousel_ for a while.” Adam scratched his chin. He had, thankfully, left his dangerous spot at the window. “I don’t think she acts as much anymore though? She’s choosier with her parts, anyway.”

Eric locked up his apartment and the three of them headed downstairs and outside. Jack was leaning against his car and his face broke out in a smile when he saw Eric, though it immediately fell a little upon noticing the other two. It didn’t disappear completely, though. “Good afternoon,” he said, nodding politely.

Adam reached him first and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, man. Adam Birkholtz. Big fan of yours.”

“Jack Zimmermann. It’s nice to meet you, too.” Jack glanced over at Eric, and then to Justin. “You must be the neighbors Bittle mentioned?”

“They sure are. Justin, here, let me take that.” Eric took the box and smiled at Jack. “I had to prove to them that I didn’t make this whole thing up, didn’t I?”

Jack surprised him with a short laugh. “If you say so.” He shook Justin’s hand. “I hear you guys helped Bittle get my hat to me. Thank you.”

Justin shook his head. “Justin Oluransi, and it was nothing, man. Anything to help a guy out, right?”

“Though if you _did_ want to prove your gratitude by giving us your autograph, we’d be much obliged,” said Adam. He produced a pen and small book from seemingly nowhere. A pocket? “We’re on a mission to get as many Bruins’ signatures as we can.”

Jack blinked, and then reached for the pen. “Yeah? How many do you have?”

“You’re the seventeenth player we’ve met,” Justin said. “I gotta say, I’m still mad we didn’t get St. Martin before he was traded.” He shrugged. “Detroit. Sheesh.”

Jack nodded. While signing his name, he glanced sideways at Eric. “So yesterday I bought, uh, pie ingredients? I didn’t really know what you would need so I asked my mother. Though I see that you have some stuff too?”

Eric ignored the smirk Justin was shooting him. “I didn’t know what you would have, so yes, sir. The only thing I technically still need is apples, if you don’t happen to have any.” He didn’t mention how many apples, since his goal was still to turn out as many pies as he could before Jack stopped him.

“Apples are the one thing I thought of myself, actually.” He was smiling a little as he turned back to Adam and Justin. “It was great meeting you guys. Thanks for being such great fans.”

“No problem, man.” Adam clasped Jack on the shoulder. “You keep an eye on our boy Eric. Don’t let him bake you _too_ many pies; Bitty here’s a man on a mission when it comes to feeding people.”

Eric swatted at him, but Adam just laughed and dodged out of the way. “You shush that mouth right now, Adam Birkholtz, or I will _not_ make that blueberry crumble you requested.”

“Not possible,” Justin chirped. That made Jack laugh, though, and Eric reveled in the sound. “See you around, Zimmermann. Happy holidays!”

They were in the car for all of a block before Jack glanced over at Eric and asked, “Bitty?”

Eric groaned. “Of course you caught that. No, it’s just an awful nickname they gave me, oh, probably a week after we’d all first met. You just forget about all that and never bring it back up.”

When he looked back over, Jack was frowning. “If you don’t like it, they should stop using it.”

“That’s. Well.” Eric wiped his hands on his pant legs. “You’re right, but I mind it less than I let on, I suppose. Though I do _not_ appreciate their implication that I am small, as it were. I am of a perfectly average height, thank you very much.”

Jack smiled. “Sure you are.”

“Jack Zimmermann!” But Eric was smiling too. “Is being too large for your own good a hockey thing? Because I believe that Adam is both the tallest and the loudest person I’ve ever met. That boy has volume, my gracious.”

“Being tall can help, sure. Don’t know about being loud, or talkative. I tend not to be neither, if that counts for anything.”

“I surely wouldn’t know, considering how well we’ve gotten on in our short acquaintance.” Jack gave him a dubious look. “I mean that! You’re very easy to talk to, Jack.”

Jack still looked doubtful, but the corner of his mouth was turned up. “Yeah? Haven’t heard that one before.”

“Hmmm.” Eric stared at the window, gathering his thoughts. Jack seemed content to let the quiet stretch on. “Perhaps you haven’t been spending time with the right people, then. If they haven’t been willing to recognize what’s right in front of them.”

They drove through Kenmore Square, down Beacon Street. It was another mile before Jack spoke again. “They seemed nice,” he said. “What do they do?”

Eric jumped on the subject change. “The boys? Justin’s a medical student at BU, and Adam works in some office downtown. Something with money, lord, don’t ask me.” It was beyond him. Honestly. Investments? Eric had no clue. “I met them when I moved into the building. Last summer, this is my second apartment in the city.”

It was a good apartment, small but comfortable, the brick building four stories tall and mostly occupied by students and other young twenty somethings. Far more than Eric had thought he would ever afford before he’d landed the job at Gilchrist’s.

And then they turned into Beacon Hill. Eric was familiar with the neighborhood, but he was still struck dumb as the streets became narrower and the houses older, nicer. They parked in front of a line of near-identical brick townhouses facing a long, oval lawn, and Jack retrieved Eric’s box from the backseat before he could and nodded at the nearest door.

Jack was _wealthy_. There were no two ways about it. The foyer alone was far nicer than any place Eric had even set eyes on since moving up north. “You have a lovely home,” Eric said. It was, perhaps, an understatement.

Jack’s smile was thin. “Thank you. Camilla did most of the decorating. All of it, really. But it’s a great house.” He led them down the hall with little ceremony, leaving Eric to take in the details on his own. He caught sight of a few photos of Jack in his hockey get-up posed on the ice in some rink. Most of the other pictures featured him alongside a tall, light-haired woman, or the same woman with other unrecognizable people. “Come on, the kitchen’s just through here,” Jack said, and then they entered the most glorious, wonderful, _magnificent_ kitchen Eric had ever seen.

“My goodness,” Eric said, frozen in the doorway. It was a long room done in white and cream, the appliances perfectly modern. His hand clasped the doorframe to steady himself. “You weren’t kidding, were you?” On the counter near the stove sat a few bags of flour, two bags of what were surely apples, and other various supplies. Jack set Eric’s box on the counter while Eric stood there in stunned delight. “You didn’t skimp on the grocery shopping, either.”

Jack scratched the back of his neck. “I figured it was the least I could do. Make yourself at home.” He moved over to the refrigerator and took out a glass pitcher of water. “Would you like anything to drink? I could make coffee, or tea.”

“Some water would be nice, thank you.” Eric finally approached the counter and examined the supplies Jack had bought. The only thing missing was the maple syrup, and of course Eric had brought his own. “Wow. Alright.” Jack set down a glass of water in front of him and their eyes met. “Thank you, Jack.”

“You’re welcome.” For a moment they just stood there, until Jack cleared his throat and stepped away. Eric released the breath he’d been holding. “Do you, uh. Need any help? I don’t have anything better to do. Or, I mean. Can I keep you company?”

“Why, of course, Jack,” Eric said. It was Jack’s kitchen, after all, but he knew that wasn’t the point. “It must be nice living so near to the Common,” he said, examining a few apples from the bag. Roxbury Russets, it looked like? Someone knew what they were doing. And they weren’t bruised, he was happy to notice. “At least when the weather’s a little nicer.”

Jack leaned back against the counter. “The weather? I go running there every morning, Bittle.” Eric glanced up and saw that Jack was smirking at him. “I’ve gone when it was snowing.”

Eric shook his head. “Northerners. The only thing I’ll give you is that running in the cold is better than in the heat. I had enough of that in my football days.”

“Wait, you actually played football?” Eric looked up from the cup of flour he was measuring. Jack looked a little… worried, honestly. And certainly surprised.

That wouldn’t do. Eric set his shoulders and nodded. “Sure did. Up through my first year of high school. And I may not have liked it, and the other boys may not have liked _me,_ but I’ll have you know that I wasn’t half bad.” He’d been the fastest player on the team every year Coach had forced him to play, in fact. “You don’t have to be tall and broad to be a good athlete, you know.”

Jack looked appropriately admonished. “I… you’re right. Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that.” He took a deep breath. “You said your dad’s a coach, yeah? The other day you said that he was the one who made you play?”

“Mmhmm. Even when I’d’ve rather been baking with Mama. He was adamant about it, couldn’t be convinced otherwise. Even though most of the other boys wanted to do baseball he said it had to be football for me. He and Mama met when he was playing at the University of Georgia. They married and were about to have me by the time he graduated.” Eric shrugged. “I quit when we moved to Madison. He got the coaching position he’d always wanted but I don’t think he ever forgave me for it.” Not that Eric had really had much of a choice. After his old team had shoved him into a utility closet overnight, he was hardly going to risk a new set of boys thinking the same things about him and reliving hell all over again.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jack said, and Eric glanced up from his ball of dough to see him frowning. “It took me a while to learn that my father wasn’t going to be ashamed of me if I didn’t follow in his footsteps. I lived with that pressure for a long time. But at least I still loved hockey.”

“I would hope so, since you made a whole career of it,” Eric said. Jack smiled. “What’s your favorite thing about it?”

Jack’s expression grew almost comically serious. “Well, it depends on the team. I’ve played on lines where the push to get the puck to the goal almost feels like magic. But since I was a kid, I’ve loved being on the ice. It clears my head.”

Eric nodded. “I think that might just be how I feel about baking. Nothing fixes an off day quite like rolling out a fresh pie crust and mixing up filling.” He tapped his rolling pin, sitting on the counter near him. “The routine’s comforting. But if I’m angry? Then I bake bread. Kneading bread dough is a good way to get all those bad feelings out without taking it out on other people.”

“Someone should have told me that when I was seventeen.” Eric raised an eyebrow, and Jack huffed a laugh. “I was a pretty angry teenager. Some of it had to do with the hockey, some of it not. By your account maybe some bread would have solved everything, eh?” He was smiling, but something darker flickered in those blue eyes. “I nearly… quit, at one point. But I didn’t want to give up that feeling of being out on the ice.”

Hmm. Eric wanted to push more, but knew it wasn’t the time. “Well by your telling of it, maybe I should’ve skated more. Not that there are many places to go ice skating in rural Georgia.” And certainly not in the summer. “I’m glad you didn’t give up though, Jack. For one, I never would have had the opportunity to see this kitchen of yours if you hadn’t.”

Jack rolled his eyes at him. “Funny. You never know. Though I suppose the odds of me ending up in Boston, in this house, are pretty slim without hockey.”

“Mmm.” Eric moved both bowls of dough into the refrigerator to chill and then reached for the apples. Jack probably had zero clue that Eric had made enough dough for at least four pies, and he hoped he wouldn’t think anything of the number of apples he was using. “Do you like the neighborhood?”

“Sure. Beacon Hill is great. When I got married I wanted to stay close to downtown for the ease of everything, you know? Camilla wanted to live in the suburbs, but even she had to admit that she liked this place. I suppose it’s not exactly fashionable to stay in the city anymore, but I like it here.” He paused. “It’s an old neighborhood, you know. These townhouses were built in 1840s. They have a lot of charm.”

“I see that. It’s a beautiful area, that’s for sure. I don’t think I’ll ever get over how nice-looking it is over here. There are some grand old houses back in Madison, big, beautiful plantation homes. Absolutely lovely kitchens. I always thought it’d be nice to live in one of them.” He frowned. “Well, if I’d wanted to stay there, anyhow. But Boston is nice, too, of course. Living down south always kind of felt like living in the past, but in a way that made you feel like you could never really breathe. I like how it feels old and new all at once up here.”

Jack hummed. “That’s a good way of putting it, yeah. Do you think you’ll stay in Boston?”

Eric shrugged. “Why not? I prefer the city over the country, I think. But who knows what the future will bring. I have no plans except to really try to make baking my career.” He nodded down at the apple he was peeling and then thought of something. “You ever peel an apple, Jack? I brought the knife I’m using along with me, so if you’ve got your own somewhere you could help out, if you’d like.”

“I… think I could probably do that,” Jack said. He turned from where he was still leaning and opened a drawer, pulling out a paring knife after a moment of deliberation. He turned back to Eric, glanced at the apples sitting on the counter, and paused. “Um.”

Eric smiled. “Here, I’ll give you a few pointers.” He picked up a new apple and held the knife against it. “So, you hold the apple in your left hand like this and start to peel it at an angle, like so. We don’t want any peel but try to leave as much apple as you can. And just go around in a circle. See? It doesn’t have to come off in one long strip the way I’m doing it, either. I’ve just peeled a lot of apples.” Jack was entirely focused on Eric’s hands, and when he finished speaking Jack looked up. Eric handed him the apple he’d begun. “Here, try finishing this one.”

Jack helping lasted all of twenty minutes; when Eric brought the dough back out Jack was quick at learning to roll it out but absolutely balked when Eric explained how to weave a lattice. After a minute or so of watching, however, some other idea sparked in his eyes. He excused himself briefly before returning with a camera.

He held it up somewhat sheepishly. “Do you mind? You don’t have to say yes, or anything. It’s just a hobby of mine. I develop the photos myself.”

Eric glanced down at himself. There wasn’t any flour on his clothes, thankfully, and his outfit was nice enough. “I suppose that’s fine. Go on ahead. You’re a photographer, then?”

Jack shrugged. He brought the camera up to his face. “Just keep going, act natural. There.” The camera clicked and Eric felt a rush of warmth across his face, despite himself. “I picked it up when I moved to Boston. Before I met anyone. I’d spend hours taking photos by the river, then come back and develop them only to discover they were all terrible.”

That made Eric laugh, and the camera clicked again. “Poor you. I’m sure you’ve improved in the meantime, though?”

“I’d like to think so.” _Click_. “Oh, wow.” Jack let down the camera and was staring at the finished lattice. “Yeah, there’s no way I could have done that. You’re lucky you didn’t let me ruin your pie, Bittle.”

“Now, what did we say about names, Mr. Zimmermann? But you hush, you would have done fine. Practice makes perfect, anyhow.” Eric brought the pie over to the oven and slid it in, setting his timer to forty minutes. “One down, two or three more to go.”

Jack shot a surprised look at the supplies on the counter. “That many? Huh.”

“You really have no idea about baking, do you?” Eric crossed his arms and smiled. “Come over here. You’re doing the next lattice. Don’t give me that look!”

With a little more needling, Eric wore him down. There was a reason he was more than capable of wrangling Justin and Adam when the occasion called for it. His very best impression of his Mama was more than worth it, too, when the reward for his effort was Jack laughing in the late afternoon sunshine. Flour on his face. Struggling to make sense of a lattice. Grinning at Eric like they’d known each other far longer than a few afternoons.

It was so _easy_. Easy to smile back, maybe even flutter his eyelashes a little. He wasn’t thinking. Lord, he wasn’t thinking, but how could he help it? This man was kind and sensitive, honest and polite. Straight out of Eric’s dreams. And this was no Friday night hidden away in the back corner of a bar with a man just as desperate as he was. This was warmth, this was Eric’s favorite way to pass the time. The smell of apple pie baking in the oven, home.

Then, out of nowhere: “Jack, are you in the kitchen?” Eric turned and saw a woman appear in the doorway, tall and blonde, young.

“Camilla.” Jack was frowning as he stepped out from around the counter. “Sorry, I didn’t know you’d be by today.”

“I wasn’t aware I had to schedule visits to my own home.” Her expression was grim as her attention slid over to Eric. She was still wearing a long, tan winter coat, her curls piled under an elegant hat. “You have company?”

“Eric, this is Camilla,” Jack introduced, and Eric noticed that all signs of their earlier mood had drained from Jack’s face. He looked on edge. “He’s a friend from the department store.”

“A friend?” She stepped further into the kitchen, examining everyone spread out across the counters. “I wasn’t aware you had any friends who cooked.”

“We’re baking,” Eric corrected, before realizing that it probably wasn’t the best moment to do so.

Both Jack and Camilla turned to stare at him. “I’m sure,” Camilla said, her tone implying quite the opposite. Jack’s expression was angry. “Jack, darling, would you mind stepping away for a moment or two? I had a question for you about the Knights’ Christmas party.”

A tense silence fell over them. Jack exhaled roughly and then nodded. “Fine.” Turning to Eric, Jack didn’t quite meet his eyes as he added, “I’ll be back in a minute or two.”

This. This wasn’t quite what Eric had expected he was walking into.

Down the hall, he could hear their voices nearly as well he would have if they’d stayed in the kitchen with him. He tried to focus on fixing Jack’s handiwork.

“I cannot believe you, Jack. In our _home?_ ”

“We’re friends, Camilla, I met him days ago-”

“You think that helps?” It was clear from her voice that Camilla was deeply angry. “My god.”

Jack huffed. “This isn’t what you think it is.”

“And what would that be?” A beat. “To think I ever believed a word you said to me.”

“I meant everything!”

Eric had to stop listening. He stared down at the unfinished pie before him and decided to start cleaning up. The sound of his own movements obscured his hearing a little, but.

 

_You did, did you? Tell me what I’m supposed to think. Blond, short-_

_-don’t you dare bring Kenny into this-_

_-and the way he looks, I thought you would. Well. I suppose I never did understand. But I thought you at least had some **discretion**._

 

He set his rolling pin back in the box he’d brought along with him. There was a bathroom off the kitchen, toward the rear of the house. Quietly, Eric made his retreat.

 

**

 

“Hello, Eric Bittle speaking.” He waved his hand at the landlady, giving her his most charming smile. Old Mrs. Hall gave him a look but retreated to her own apartment, leaving him and the telephone in peace.

“Eric,” said a familiar voice. “It’s Jack. Jack Zimmermann.”

“ _Oh._ Well, good evening, Jack.” Eric swallowed. He had not, quite frankly, been expecting to hear from Jack again. Not after the previous afternoon’s interruption. Had he forgotten something at Jack’s place? “How may I help you?”

He heard Jack sigh. “Eric. I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I didn’t expect Camilla to come by, but you didn’t deserve to witness any of that. I’m especially sorry for my rudeness, after.” When Camilla had finally left and Jack returned to the kitchen, he’d been quiet and tense. Eric was relieved when Jack offered to call a cab for him.

He couldn’t say he’d liked seeing Jack in such a mood but it was what it was, and it was over. “You don’t need to apologize, Jack. It’s quite alright. I’m sorry to have intruded on your personal matters.” Eric cleared his throat. “Did you get that pie out of the oven alright? And did you enjoy it?”

That seemed to startle a laugh out of Jack, a short thing. “The pie? Yes, Eric. You were right, it was very good.”

“Excellent. I mean, I expected nothing less, not to speak too highly of myself, but have I told you the story of how the Bittle-Phelps pie crust recipe has won ribbons at county fairs all across Georgia? And at the state level, too, though” – oh, Eric knew he was rambling, but – “of course I added my own twist to those apple pies I made you, with the maple sugar. Since you’re Canadian and all-”

“ _Eric,_ ” Jack interrupted, huffing another laugh. “It was delicious. I ate most of that first pie. Would have finished it, too, if my friend Sh- uh, Knight hadn’t eaten the last third. He asked me to extend his appreciation, by the way. But that’s not why I called you.”

“Right. Really, Jack, it’s okay. I understand that yesterday wasn’t, well, exactly what you may have wanted to happen. But you shouldn’t worry about me. You were a little overwhelmed, is all.”

“I’m still sorry,” Jack said quietly. “And, well. I may have done something that’s, uh. A bit much. As an apology. You mentioned that you have tomorrow afternoon off from work, is that right?”

“Yes, Jack, but you really, really don’t need to do anything for me-”

“I _want_ to,” Jack blurted. Eric closed his mouth. “I’ll come by yours tomorrow around two, if that works?”

“I… Yes.” What was he doing?

“Okay. Good. I’ll see you tomorrow, Eric.”

“Alright. Goodnight, Jack.” He hung up the phone and leaned against the wall, contemplating. “Jesus Christ on a cracker,” he muttered, shooting the landlady’s door a worried look before hurrying upstairs where he could curse and bake and mix himself up a stiff drink in peace.

 

**

 

The following afternoon brought even _more_ bewilderment for one Eric Richard Bittle.

“ _Jack Zimmermann you did not buy me a new oven._ ”

For his part, Jack _almost_ looked sheepish. “Yes. I did.” His hands rested in the pockets of his leather jacket as he smiled at Eric. “For your baking.”

Eric, standing on the stoop outside his apartment building, slid his hands down the sides his face. “And this oven is meant to be delivered in less than an hour?”

“That is correct.”

“You have to cancel the order. There’s a phone in the hall, get in here.” Eric grabbed at Jack’s arm and tried to pull him inside, but Jack didn’t budge. “Jack. Jack!”

Smug satisfaction settling across his face, Jack shook his head. “It’s too late, I already paid. I’ll wait with you inside, though, if it’s too cold for you out here?” His chirping smirk was back. Eric, frantic in his absolute inability to accept such a gift, just groaned and tugged harder.

But he had little power to stop it. An hour and a half later, when his _brand new_ Chambers Model 90C gas range and oven had been delivered and installed in his second story apartment, Eric forced Jack to sit down and wait as he hurriedly threw together a batch of Christmas sugar cookies to send with him. Perhaps with maple icing? Jack began to protest but one look from Eric shut him up.

“An apology oven,” Eric grumbled under his breath. Jack sat politely at the kitchen table. “This boy.”

“Do you like it?” Jack asked, assessing the new appliance. It was sorely out of place in Eric’s little kitchen, which was tidy but small. The poor refrigerator had nothing on its new neighbor. “I chose the white model since I didn’t know what color your kitchen was, but I think it looks nice in here.”

“It could look like the back of a skunk’s ass and it would still be too much, Jack,” Eric said, but Jack was laughing. “Honestly! How am I supposed to make up for this? Baked goods for as long as you want them, at the very least. What’s your favorite meal?”

“Eric.” Jack waited until Eric turned to look at him. When he did, Jack’s laughter had ended, and his face was serious. “I don’t want anything in return. Please. Besides, it’d been on my mind since the moment you set foot in my kitchen. Even before everything else. No matter the circumstances I would have probably found a way to buy you a new oven.”

Eric just stared. “But why?” he asked, and then turned back to his cookies because he wasn’t sure he could handle the answer. “You’re a man of comfortable means, I understand that much. I’ve seen where you live. But you don’t owe me anything.”

Jack was quiet for a minute or two. “Can it just be a gift? From one friend to another?”

Eric sighed. “We’re friends, then?”

“I’d like to be. And as a friend, there are things you deserve to know. Things I want you to know.”

The dough finished, Eric brought the bowl over to the table where his rolling pin and cookie cutters sat waiting. “I’m all ears,” he said, and finally looked Jack in the face again.

His eyes, lord. Blue as the prettiest winter sky and nearly as heart-breaking. Nowhere near as cold, though. “Thank you,” Jack said, and Eric nodded. “Okay. First, Camilla and I are trying to maintain some semblance of a friendship, I suppose you’d call it, but the divorce is a done deal. I’ve signed my half of the papers. She hasn’t, yet, but I think she’s just putting it off so she can keep lording around how I’ve failed her.”

Eric had some thoughts about that, but kept his mouth shut. Jack picked up a snowflake-shaped cutter and examined it for a moment before continuing. “Second, I’m not going back to hockey.” He took a heavy breath. “My leg, it wasn’t a clean break, and I’ve been playing ten years now. Maybe it’s just bad luck but I’ve never won a cup—that’s the championship title—and even before last year I didn’t really want to move teams again. Montreal was okay, but New York wasn’t good for me for a number of reasons. So, I have a lot of thinking to do. About what to do next. There are parts of my life here in Boston I really like, so the _where’s_ not really part of the problem.”

“Third. In New York, I.” He stared down at the cutter and shook his head. “I get anxious. And when I feel like I don’t have control over my life, it gets worse. It got so bad while I was playing for the Rangers that the only person I really trusted was a single teammate—Parson. We were close, but then we weren’t, and then I came here.” He’d closed his eyes and was breathing faster, now. Uneven.

Eric reached out, tentatively at first but then with confidence, and squeezed his arm. “You don’t have to tell me everything,” he said, quietly. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Jack snorted, but it wasn’t unkind. After a while he opened his eyes again and watched Eric carefully. “I’m a mess, sometimes. But I’m usually okay. And for some reason I feel fine right now, even with my whole life as I knew it falling apart.”

He kept his gaze on Eric. His expression was gentle, if a little ragged at the edges. “That’s good,” Eric said, finally.

“Yeah,” Jack agreed. He offered the cookie cutter to Eric, who accepted it easily. He knew which shape he’d be using for this first tray, and maybe every batch after. “It really is.”

 

**

 

The Christmas turkey turned out impressively, due in no small part to the new oven. Eric still carried it over to Adam and Justin’s, though, because it was somewhat of a tradition to celebrate the various holidays in their apartment. Something about having two occupants made it feel far homier than Eric’s place, and maybe even his own home back in Georgia. Perhaps it was knowing that the present company knew all that there was to know about him, and liked him all the same.

(Mama had mailed him a present earlier in the week, a new watch and some socks. Practical, plain gifts. She’d signed the card from her and Coach both, leaving Eric wondering if his father had provided any input on the gifts at all.)

It was a good holiday. Adam tossed kernels of popcorn at Eric and Justin as they exchanged presents, wearing the sweater Eric had bought him as a Hanukkah gift. They got a little drunk on beer and Eric even swayed along to a few of the Christmas carols on the radio while serving up dinner. Christmas, for Eric, was about spending time with the people he loved. In Boston, that meant these boys. But he couldn’t help but wonder how Jack’s Christmas was going, in that beautiful home with his parents. Would Camilla stop in unannounced? Would that ruin Jack’s holiday?

“Hey, Bitty,” said Adam. He was sprawled out on the floor while Justin laid on the couch, playing some sort of Scrabble drinking game against each other. Eric, wrapped in an afghan on the armchair, looked up from his magazine. “You don’t have to work tomorrow, right?”

“Just the morning shift, but that’s nothing. Why’re you wondering?”

“You should come to this hockey tournament with us tomorrow. Four of the local universities are playing, including BU. It could give you a better idea of what your pal Jack does.” He waggled his eyebrows. Eric, quite graciously, ignored him.

Justin was grinning. “It’ll be fun, Bits, we’ve only been trying to get you to come to a game _forever._ It’s two games tomorrow, and then another two more on Saturday if you get into it and want to come with us again. Tickets cost hardly anything, too. Definitely cheaper than a Bruins game.”

“The Globe’s calling it the Bean Pot,” Adam added. Eric raised an eyebrow.

“That sure is… interesting,” Eric said, “But why not. I’ll go.” He didn’t mention that Jack’s hockey career was over. It wasn’t their business, after all. But he still wanted to learn a little more about the game. “What time?”

“First game’s at five over at the Arena.” Justin sat up. “You know what this means, right?” He stood and walked over to the bookshelf, taking down the box of… oh lord no.

“Bitty’s formal introduction to college hockey!” Adam shouted. Justin dropped the box on the floor, their game forgotten. “You’ve got to know who the players are, Bits! And how the game works.”

It was too much; Eric couldn’t help but sink hopelessly into his chair. “That’s hardly necessary. Y’all just leave me alone, I don’t want to learn anything today.” He held up his magazine. “You see this? There’s nothing halfway intelligent in here. Because it’s _Christmas._ ”

“Not for me, it isn’t,” Adam said cheerfully. He’d sat up and was sorting through folders. Justin was clearing away the Scrabble board. “Now get over here, we’ve got some catching up to do. You’re going to love it, I promise _._ ”

In the end, Eric didn’t love studying the stats of players he knew or cared nothing about, nor did he appreciate Adam’s spirited (and bordering on drunken) historical rundown of hockey in the Boston area. But he had a family to spend the holidays with. And if their rambling was doing nothing to take his mind away from his burgeoning crush on one tall, Canadian man? Eric could cover his smile by taking another sip of beer. He didn’t have to tell them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eric learns new information, and is taken on a long drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for mentions of alcohol abuse and of homophobic bullying. Jack briefly discusses past alcohol abuse and Bitty twice discusses the bullying/homophobia he experienced growing up in Georgia, though in no more explicit terms than it has ever come up in the comic. Nothing explicit but hey, take care of yourself.

_Saturday, Dec. 27, 1952_

 

A half hour after calling to check that he could stop by, Jack knocked on the door to Eric’s apartment. Eric used much of the intervening time to change his clothes and tidy up, his heart doing small flips in his chest. He was pretty good at ignoring truths about himself he didn’t want to face but even he had to admit that he was smitten. Harboring a crush didn’t make him feel too guilty, no, but facing Jack when he’d spent half the afternoon daydreaming about the boy was a whole other thing.

Then again, he was fairly sure he didn’t imagine the way Jack’s eyes lit up when Eric opened up the door. The boy wasn’t exactly expressive but Eric felt like he was starting to get a handle on Jack’s different facial cues. “Hello, Jack! What can I do for you on this horrible winter evening?” He stood back to allow Jack to enter, shutting the door behind him.

Jack chuckled as he passed, low and warm. “I take it you’re not liking the snow?”

“Absolutely not,” Eric replied, though the blanket wrapped around his shoulders was probably answer enough. He led down the hall to the kitchen, Jack trailing him. “I swear, it seems like I’ll never find a sweater warm enough to keep me from shivering. If only I fit into that nice new oven of mine.”

“Have you tried it yet? You might be selling yourself short, Bittle.” He was grinning, the bastard.

“Chirp, chirp. Would you like a drink? I’ve got beer, or I could mix you up a drink. I think I still have some vodka, rum…”

“About that,” Jack said with a cautious tone. Eric, who’d been digging through a cabinet, turned to face him. “I don’t drink alcohol. And I mostly avoid coffee too? The second one doesn’t help my anxiety very much and I have a bit of a history with the first.” Jack grimaced. “It’s not a problem anymore, but I still avoid it drinking. It’s easier that way.”

“That’s just fine, Jack. Thank you for telling me.” Eric thought for a moment, and then asked, “How about some tea then? That’s exactly what we need on a cold night like this, don’t you think?”

“Tea would be nice. Thanks, Eric.” Jack’s smile was small but genuine. After watching Eric get the kettle started he cleared his throat, and said, “You’re easy to talk to, too, you know.”

“Hmm?” Eric asked, before remembering what he’d said to Jack almost a week prior, in his car. “Oh. Thank you, Jack. I like listening to you.”

“You make me want to tell you things,” Jack blurted, and Eric stopped and really looked at him, then. He was biting at his upper lip, nervous. The expression he wore reminded Eric of the last conversation they’d had in this kitchen, honest and vulnerable and intimate. “Right when I met you, it felt like I could trust you with anything. I came back to thank you for returning my hat and before realizing it I’d offered you lunch.” He smiled a little. “I’m not usually the type to grab lunch with a stranger.”

“I’m glad you did, though, sweetheart,” Eric said, only realizing what he'd said after it left his mouth. Now it was his turn to gnaw at the inside of his cheek. Apologizing or taking it back would only draw attention to it, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t meant it, anyway. “At any rate,” he settled on saying, gently. Calmly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He busied himself getting out mugs, listening as Jack exhaled. “Me too,” he finally said. He leaned against the counter, a hint of worry pulling at his features. “It’s been… a day. I just wanted to talk to you in person.”

Eric gave him a fond look over his shoulder. “You know you’re always welcome here.” He handed Jack a mug and they returned to the tiny little sitting room, Eric making a beeline for his nest of warm blankets on the couch. Jack sat in the chair beside it. “And… you’re always welcome to tell me anything you want. Whatever’s on your mind, Jack.”

Jack seemed to mull that over for a while, staring into his tea. “I had a teammate in New York,” he said. “Kent Parson. Kenny.”

“Ah,” Eric said. He remembered the argument he’d overheard. _Don’t you dare bring Kenny into this,_ as Camilla went off about… well.

Jack gave him an appraising look. “I don’t know how much you heard the other day. Not enough to really understand anything, I’d guess. But I’d like to tell you the story of what happened in New York, and after, with the divorce.”

Eric nodded. He’d wanted to know but asking had felt out of the question. “I meant it when I said _anything,_ Jack.”

He could see the moment Jack properly steeled himself for this conversation, whatever it was. He squared his shoulders and sat forward a little, and his fingers tightened around his mug. “Right. So. I was traded there in the summer of ’43, after playing on the Canadiens for two years. I’d just turned twenty, so still pretty young. After getting settled in my apartment I caught up with a few of my new teammates, the ones who stuck around Manhattan in the summer. Just about everybody else on the team was Canadian, though, so most of them weren’t around. But two of the three Americans were. And one of them was Kent Parson.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Kid from Rochester. Kinda short, compared to the rest of us. Scrappy. We hit it off, he talked a lot. He needed someone to listen to him, I guess, and I needed someone who didn’t only want to be my friend because of who my dad is. Then practices started and it didn’t take long to figure out that we were magic on the ice.”

“I’ve never played with anyone else like him, before or since,” he added. He almost sounded wistful. “Clever player. Brawn’s a big thing in hockey, you know, all these huge players getting by using force, but Parse was smart. Between that, his speed, and the way we could read each other’s minds on the ice, we could’ve won it all. Might have, if we’d been on a different team.”

“Was that hard?” Eric asked. “Not winning?”

Jack hummed. “It was part of it,” he said. “I was still too occupied with winning the Cup. Living up to my dad’s legacy. The team, the fans, everyone expected I was going to lead the Rangers to another championship because I was his son. I couldn’t handle the pressure at all, and I started drinking more heavily to deal with it.” A sigh. “I’d done the same as a teenager but this was worse. No supervision. And our group could get pretty rowdy, you know? I didn’t even want that, but going along with it was better than… not. By the end of that first season I was a mess. Alcoholic, constantly irritable, mean. It didn’t take a lot to set me off. Most of my teammates didn’t like me much. But then there was Kent.”

“We were close. He tried to be supportive, but the nature of our relationship alone was enough to… well.” Jack looked at Eric with an expression he recognized. It was a little desperate, a little pleading, but there was an undercurrent of solidarity, too. It was a resilient look, a firm one. Eric knew, then, exactly what Jack was talking about.

He’d had his suspicions but being certain was a different feeling entirely. Jack must have found whatever it was he needed to continue in Eric’s expression, though, because he kept going. “If anyone found out, our careers would have ended.”

Eric knew. “How did it end?” Eric asked. His own voice was quiet. “Did anyone find out?”

“Not in New York,” Jack said. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up, though he didn’t seem to notice or care. “After my third year there he got traded to the Maple Leafs. Once he was gone I wasn’t better, exactly, but it was a little easier.”

Eric was still thinking about the beginning of what Jack had said. “Not in New York,” he repeated. Jack just watched as Eric connected the dots. “Camilla?”

Jack nodded. “Kent came to Boston a few years ago. Well, he’s here for games, but he came by the house. I suppose he had it in his head that he could convince me to come to Toronto. Camilla came home early and walked in on our conversation.” Eric remembered their own interruption in the kitchen. He could imagine Jack’s anger from that day, how quickly his mood went sour upon being walked in on. “She found out. He left pretty quickly, but she overheard us before stepping in.”

Eric tapped his fingernail against the side of his mug. “You said this was a few years ago? So that means divorce didn’t come up then.”

Jack shook his head. “No. We talked about it, though. She wasn’t happy but I told her she had nothing to worry about. That I loved her, and only her. It probably helped that she saw firsthand how shaken I was after Kenny left.” He stared up at the ceiling, leaning back in the chair. “I wanted it to work out. I did love her, _do_ love her. And we were close back then. Marrying her wasn’t a way to hide. But she doesn’t trust me anymore. And I don’t want to live the same life she does, not really. She wants a life where we entertain all her family’s friends, a house out in the suburbs. All I wanted was hockey, and now? I don’t even know. I’m figuring it out, I guess.”

All Eric wanted to do was reach out and hug Jack, but he stayed in his nest of blankets. “Are you happier now?”

“I mean, mostly. Yes. The divorce is the right thing,” he said. “It’s stressful because she keeps drawing it out. I’m ready for it to be over.”

They sat in silence for a while, and Eric pondered all of this. Everything that Jack had been through when all he wanted was a career he enjoyed and happiness, a good life. He could relate. “Thank you for telling me,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry about your situation. I just feel so useless, you know? It’s not fair and I wish I could help.”

Jack’s eyes were warm, if a little strained. “Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault. And you’ve done more than enough already, Eric. You have to know that.” He paused, then, and sat up straighter in his chair. “I did have another thing to tell you, though. I’m leaving.” Eric’s face must have revealed what he was feeling because Jack’s expression turned frantic and he hurried to add, “Not forever! Just a trip. Up to Nova Scotia. I need a few weeks away from everything.” He glanced down into his now-empty mug, both hands wrapped around it. “My family has a little house on Cape Breton Island. It’s not fancy or anything, but I like it there. It’s quiet.”

“Oh, Jack.” Eric set down his tea and pulled his blankets tighter around himself. This was far less awful than his first thought, which had been that Jack was going to leave Boston for good and they’d never get to see each other again. “That sounds like exactly what you need to do. Get away from all this city nonsense. Oh, would you like me to bake up a few things to send along with you, maybe even a few meals? You never did tell me your favorite food either.”

That made Jack smile in earnest. “You have to promise not to chirp me.” Eric pantomimed zipping his lips shut and Jack chuckled. “Alright. I really like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

Eric raised his eyebrows, amused. Jack shot him a playful glare and Eric laughed. “Well, you’re sure making my job easier if all it takes to please you is a PB and J. What’s your favorite kind of jelly?”

“Uh. Grape is fine? It’s what I usually buy.” Jack looked a little confused by the question. “Is there that big a difference?”

“Is there a—Jack Zimmermann. Well, I suppose I’ll just have to run taste tests to see what you like best. Oh! I think I’ve still got a jar or two of my aunt’s blueberry and rhubarb preserves, I could send that along. What kind of bread do you like?” He shook his head at the look Jack gave him. “Oh, nevermind. Don’t you worry, I’ll pack you up everything you need for the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches you’ve ever had. When are you leaving?”

“Tuesday, I think. My parents are leaving Monday morning, which gives me time to pack and get everything in order.” He took a deep breath and looked directly at Eric. “But I wanted to ask you. I thought… would you like to come with me?”

Eric blinked. “Me?” It felt like time had stopped around him as he stared back at Jack, who nodded once. His mouth felt dry. “For how long, did you say?”

Jack shrugged again. “As long as we want. Two weeks, three? I didn’t know, well. About your job.”

“I could quit,” Eric said without thinking. Jack’s eyebrows raised. “I’ve wanted to find a different one anyway. If they don’t give me the time off, at least. But I think they might like me enough to bring me back on, maybe, even if they’re not so happy about the short notice.” He picked at the frayed edge of his afghan absentmindedly, the red yarn wooly against his calloused fingertips. “I could spare the time.”

He watched Jack watch him. It was a little overwhelming to be the sole focus of Jack’s attention, and not in an altogether unpleasant way. Finally, Jack swallowed and asked, “Yeah?”

Eric nodded. “Sure.” Then he frowned. “Is it going to be colder up that way?”

Jack’s immediate grin melted away most of the tension in the room. “Probably,” he said, looking pleased. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure out a way to keep you warm.” As if realizing what he’d just said, his smirk dropped and he blushed. But he didn’t look away. He held Eric’s gaze, and certainty spread through Eric as sure and true as the warmth from his new oven.

Yeah, Eric was reading this right. The realization that they were very likely on the same page brought a smile to his face that he couldn’t hold back. “I’m sure we will,” he said, causing Jack to turn even redder, and then stood up. His hands were itching to do something and he had an idea of where to start. There was food to plan and prepare, after all. “I think I have a few recipes lying around here for various jams and such. How about we pick out a few that sound good? And I have a hockey game to tell you about, too.”

The way Jack looked at him as though he was something worth marveling at nearly took Eric’s breath away. “I’d love to,” he said, and Eric smiled back at him. He’d stop by the grocery store in the morning and spend tomorrow afternoon cooking and baking. Sandwich fixings, and no less than three pies and some muffins for their drive. All this and more for this boy whose eyes, shining and fond, followed him as he searched around for his cookbooks.

 

**

 

On Monday evening Eric brought dessert over to Adam and Justin’s. It was a regular occurrence, given how much Eric loved baking and how readily he could rely on his friends to eat it. But Eric intended to inform them that he was going to spend two weeks on holiday with Jack. It was enough to lodge a ball of worry in his stomach as he headed over.

He wasn’t dumb. Eric knew they thought it odd all the time he and Jack had been spending together. No matter how many times he explained that they were becoming good friends, it wasn’t enough. And even though Eric’s intuition about Jack’s romantic tendencies was confirmed, it wasn’t as though he could just _tell_ that to them. It would be a breach of privacy, and the very last thing he wanted to do was break Jack’s trust. Eric was sure that the boys wouldn’t go out and tell anyone – they knew all about him, after all – but still. It wouldn’t be right. Eric had to find some other way to assure them.

He waited until they were nearly done with the pie before coming out with it. Adam’s eyebrows drew in the instant the words left Eric’s mouth, and he looked exasperated. “What? No. Bitty. What the _hell._ You can’t just drop everything to run away with a guy you’ve known for literally two weeks. What about your _job_?”

“My job’s been settled,” Eric said evenly, omitting the fact that no, they weren’t going to hire him again. Oh well. He had enough savings to pay rent for a little while, at least. He’d already begun scouring the paper for job listings. “I appreciate your concern, but I am capable of making my own decisions based upon my own judgement,” he said. He glanced at Justin, who was watching him with some combination of worry and unease on his face. “I hope it’s not too much trouble to ask the two of you to check in on the houseplant a few times while I’m gone? It’s winter so she shouldn’t need much, God bless her.”

“Bits,” Justin said, setting his fork down. He meant serious business, then. “Listen to us. We know you like Zimmermann, yeah? And you think he’s a genuinely good guy. That’s fine, and he may be, but isn’t it a little soon to, I don’t know, trust him completely?” His tone was a little incredulous. “He’s basically a stranger, man. Don’t you think you should give it more time before running off with the guy?”

Eric took another calm bite of his honey peach pie. All in all, it had turned out pretty good, despite the fact that he used canned peaches. He’d hoped that making Justin’s favorite would put them both into a more generous mood. Maybe it was, for all he knew. “He’s a friend. I told you both that I’ve never met anyone quite like him. He’s not like most folks. I trusted you two pretty quickly after moving in here, didn’t I?”

“That was different,” Adam said. Eric raised an eyebrow. “We didn’t try to kidnap you! And if we had, and if you had any sense at all, you would have run off in the opposite direction and never looked back.”

“He’s not trying to kidnap me!” Eric leveled his best Mama Bittle glare at Adam and asked, cooly, “Why can’t you trust what I’m saying for once instead of acting like you know better than I do?”

Adam threw his hands up in the air and exclaimed, “Well what if we do! You’re not thinking this through, Bits! I don’t know what the hell you think this is-”

“Well I don’t know what you think this is, or why you seem to think you know _more_ than me about my own dang business-”

“Hey hey hey, stop it, both of you,” Justin interrupted, a hint of a hard edge in his voice. He shot Adam a look that very clearly meant _calm down_ and then turned back to Eric. “Come on, Bitty. Of course we trust you, but we’re worried, okay? It’s Jack we don’t trust yet.”

“From what little you’ve told us, it sounds like he’s had a rough year,” Adam grumbled. He’d crossed his arms and was leaning back in his chair. “I’m just saying that this isn’t normal, Bitty. You’ve got to be more careful with him.”

“No, you boys _listen to me_. You think I don’t understand what you’re saying? I grew up in small town Georgia where I couldn’t trust anyone, do you realize that? The last time I trusted a boy taller than me before meeting y’all was the day I got shoved into a utility closet overnight. Just because it’s a little easier up here doesn’t mean I forgot all that, or that I don’t still deal with it.” He pushed back from their rickety table and stood up, picking up his plate. “I am an adult man and I’m tired of being treated otherwise. Jack Zimmermann is also an adult, and a kind and good one at that. We can do whatever we damn well want and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

He dumped his plate in the sink and closed his eyes, his hands gripping the edge of it. “I’m leaving around ten in the morning, I already paid next month’s rent and all that.” He turned and looked at them, finally. Justin looked concerned and a little chastened; Adam seemed angry and upset, still, but he was quiet. It counted for something. Eric pulled his spare key out of his pocket and set it on the table. “I have packing to go finish. Just water the philodendron once next week. That’s all I need.”

Eric was happy to hightail it out of there. By the time he made it back to his own kitchen with his empty pie plate he was riled up and itching for something to do.

Three loaves of bread later he felt almost normal. He would talk to them after he returned, apologize for losing his temper while standing his ground about the fact that upset. Everything would be fine. Hell, a good night’s sleep would probably erase the few bad feelings he still felt. It was only midnight, after all.

And then he realized he still had a suitcase to pack.

 

So Eric was sleepy when his cab arrived at Jack’s house the following morning. This was likely why he reacted the way he did upon being introduced to Jack’s best friend. In Eric’s defense he had never met someone who introduced himself with such profanity.

“You want me to call you _what_ , now?” His hand lifted to his heart of its own volition, and he could feel himself gaping. “Surely you're kidding me.”

The man with the mustache grinned and winked at him, of all things. “You heard correctly, my new friend. Call me Shitty.”

“He’s serious,” Jack added dryly, lifting Eric’s suitcase into the trunk of his Bentley. The three of them stood in front of Jack’s home packing up the car for the trip. Eric assumed he had dropped in to say goodbye. “Shitty hates his given name so much that I’m under written oath to use it only when necessary.”

“Which is far too often, I have to say,” Shitty sighed, leaning against the car. He was wearing a tan trench coat and, rather inexplicably given the freezing winter weather, a straw pork-pie hat. The latter he tilted to a jaunty angle as he spoke. “I’m going to miss you at the holiday party, brother, even though I actually envy you for getting to skip out on it.” He glanced back at Eric. “Big family shindig out in the ‘burbs, my father always hosts all his work investors, the neighbors, blah blah blah. Jack here’s about the only person I can ever stand to get along with.”

Judging by the face Jack was making, Eric guessed that the feeling was mutual. “Just stick near Johnson and you’ll be fine.”

Shitty huffed a laugh. “True. What a character. That guy’s even weirder than you, and that’s saying something.” Jack flipped him off, which surprised a short laugh out of Eric. “Hey, you know it’s true! Goalies are weird!”

“Uh huh.” Jack closed the trunk and made a beeline for Shitty, capturing him in a headlock. The playful physicality of it surprised Eric, since up until that point he’d only known Jack as quiet and polite. He was even smiling. “Like you don’t prefer ‘weird’ people, anyway.”

“I never said I did!” Shitty replied, his voice a little strained, before aiming an elbow for Jack’s side.

By the time they’d finished wrestling, both were grinning widely and Shitty was even a little out of breath. Even so, he pulled a pipe out of his pocket and set about lighting it. “Listen up, Jackabelle. I expect you to be back in Boston in time for my birthday, got it?”

“Shits, your birthday was two weeks ago.”

“Exactly!” He grinned with the pipe in his mouth. “You have a whole year. Skip town for all I care, you deserve it. Except actually please do return within a month or else it'll be your fault when I strangle my father. Or maybe even your lovely ex-wife, I think I'm up to it.” At Eric’s questioning look, Shitty nodded. “Ah, the Collinses are family friends, I’ve known Camilla forever. Have to say that I expected her to turn out better than she did, but what can you do?”

Jack pushed Shitty back toward his own car. “Go away. You’re already late for work.”

“Wrong, you moose. _You’re_ my work.” He sidestepped Jack and saluted him, then bowed toward Eric. “That apple pie you made was out of this world, by the way. I’ve eaten a lot of rich people desserts and none of them even come close. Would you be down to take a few orders when you get back? I’m especially partial to strawberry cream, are those in season this time of year? Probably not, oh well.” He looked disappointed for a very brief moment before shaking it off. “Either way, it’s been a pleasure meeting you, my good sir.”

Gosh, but this boy could ramble. Not that Eric wasn’t flattered. Just bewildered. “Why thank you! And of course I’ll bake you some pies, no strawberries yet, but I’m sure we can figure something else out. I suppose you could pass on a list of your preferred flavors to Jack and we’ll figure it out from there?”

“Awesome! Eric, you’re the best. I can’t wait to talk more.” He opened the door to his car and tipped his hat. “Well, you both have a nice trip. Drive safe, don’t talk to strangers. Call me at least once, Jack!” Shitty ducked into the seat and honked the horn at them. “Happy New Year!”

As he drove off, Eric and Jack’s eyes met. “He seemed nice,” Eric said, a growing smile on his face. If Jack could be friends with a man like _that,_ it surely meant that he wasn’t all seriousness.

“Yeah.” Jack’s grin was a bit sheepish. "Just don't let him talk you into baking for him if you don't want to, yeah?" At Eric shake of his head, he tilted his head toward the Bentley and gestured. “Unless you need anything else, you ready to go?”

He was.

 

**

 

They drove for three hours, both in good spirits, before stopping for lunch in a little town in New Hampshire. The diner Eric picked was fine, though their waitress winked at Jack as she handed over their menus. She informed them that the day’s special was an allegedly delicious cherry pie that they _just need to try, now, so don’t forget to save some room, all right boys?_

Eric was unconvinced. “Don’t you _dare_ even think of ordering that,” he whispered as soon as she was out of earshot. Jack’s responding laugh earned them a few glares from the other patrons.

As that winded down, Eric’s eyes landed on Jack’s hands and with a jolt he realized that his wedding ring was gone. “Your ring,” he said, nodding his chin toward his hand. “You left it behind?”

“Don’t really need it anymore, eh?” Jack said. His gaze dropped down to his bare hand, his mirth fading. “And, well. Camilla signed the papers. Finally. She phoned last night to tell me, we went in this morning to make it official. That’s part of why Shitty was there. He’s my lawyer, too.”

“That boy is a lawyer?” Eric was stunned. “I do suppose he’s, well. Rather charismatic?”

Jack grinned. “That’s one way to put it, sure. Don’t get into an argument with him, it never works out well.” He glanced down at his hand again, looking thoughtful. Eric wondered if the ring’s absence felt strange after so long of having it on. “Guess I’m free now, eh?”

Good lord. Eric attempted to cover his blush by drinking his coffee. “I suppose so,” he murmured into his mug, and thankfully they were interrupted by the soup coming out.

When the waitress left again Eric reached for his coat and dug into the inner pocket. It had been a tight fit but he’d managed to get his gift for Jack to fit. “Now, I know you made it very clear that I didn’t need to do this, but I’m stubborn and could hardly let that oven go unanswered. Merry Christmas, Jack.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Jack said, but he accepted the package with a hint of a smile. Eric watched his expression as he peeled away the red and green striped wrapping paper, revealing the present; an empty photo album bound in reddish brown leather. _1953_ was pressed into the cover in gold ink. “Oh,” Jack murmured, running his fingers over the letters.

Eric wiped his palms on the sides of his pants as he watched Jack examine it. “I figured that since you’re likely to have a lot of free time next year, what with retiring from hockey and all, you might enjoy spending more time with that camera of yours? I don’t know what you usually do with your photos but I’m sure they’re nice enough to put in a book like that and share.” Jack looked back up at him, an unreadable expression on his face. “Of course you’re under no obligation to show anyone! Least of all me. It’s just—something for you to do.”

“Thank you, Eric,” Jack said. The quiet rumble of his voice was soft. “I love it.” There was a twinkle in his eye and then he was reaching beside him for the brown leather bag he’d carried in with him. He pulled out his camera and aimed it at Eric. “First photo?”

“Wait, I didn’t mean pictures of me, Jack!” _Click._ Frowning, Eric began fussing with his hair. “Now you just stop a moment and let me tidy myself-”

In the middle of Eric’s sentence Jack reached out and pulled his hands down. _Warm,_ he thought, and promptly shut his mouth. “Stop, you look fine. And the lighting’s good in here.” Jack patted Eric’s hands where they laid flat on the tabletop, a nonverbal _stay there_ , and reached for his camera again. Eric missed the contact immediately. “Sit still, just like that.”

Eric nodded. Jack wound the camera again and aligned the shot. _Click._ “Perfect.” He packed the camera away and proceeded to take a few moments to flip through the album’s empty pages, looking thoughtful. Eric returned to his bowl of chicken noodle and watched him, quietly delighting in the little sparks of electricity he felt every time Jack looked at him.

 

When they got back to the Bentley Eric insisted on driving. They continued up into Maine, passing through small towns that were as sleepy as those he’d known back in Georgia. Jack demolished two thirds of the basket of banana nut muffins. (“We’ll have to stop for groceries anyway, you can make more,” he assured Eric mid-chew, grinning when Eric reprimanded his manners.)

Eric was still behind the wheel when Jack said to him, “It feels unfair that you know so much about me, but I know less about you.” He paused. “Even if that’s my fault. I know my life has been a little overwhelming lately.”

“Maybe it is, but it’s not _really_ your fault,” Eric said, sparing a glance from the road. Between the snow on the ground and the sunshine filtering through the empty tree branches, it was fairly bright out. The blue sky made Jack’s eyes pop. “Besides, you know better than most people I’ve met up here. What else do you want to know?”

“Hmmm,” Jack mused. “Well, you've met Shitty, so. Do you have any other friends? Besides your neighbors.”

Eric’s smile is a little bitter. “A few, if by friends you mean people I recognize when I go for drinks.” Jack raised an eyebrow. Eric just sighed. “Maybe I should be more generous. There’s a boy, Will, who I’ve sat with at the Waldorf on nights we both struck out on finding dates. Quiet, red hair like you wouldn't believe, about my age. I think he originally came from around up here, actually? Somewhere near Portland. And there’s Derek, who recognized me at work once and now we say hi when we see each other, he hangs around the Playland Café pretty often.”

“But you’re so friendly,” Jack protested. Eric just shrugged. “You really mean that you’ve been living in Boston for this long and you only know four people?”

“Thanks to you that's five, now,” Eric quipped, and Jack snorted. “I know people, Jack, but it’s hard letting them get close. You know? And face it, not that many people are looking to be friends with boys like me. I bake, for heaven’s sake.”

“I like that you bake.” He sounded mildly offended, bless him.

“And that’s why I like you,” Eric said with a smile. “It’s fine, really. I get on with just about everyone I meet, don’t get me wrong. Even back in Madison folks were _nice_ to me. The problem is that they'd still talk behind my back. I may have three real friends up here, but that’s still better than a whole town of fake ones. I had Mama, but.” Suddenly Eric’s throat felt tight, and he swallowed. He was surprised that he felt as affected as he did. Even if it was a sore spot.

When it became clear that Eric wasn’t going to continue his sentence, Jack asked, “Were you close with her?”

Eric nodded, steadying himself. “As close as I could be. She never minded my baking with her, at least when it was only us around. Or my MooMaw. But even Mama wasn’t immune to the talk around town. I’m her only son, I was supposed to grow up and get married and give her a bunch of grandbabies to dote on. Instead I graduated high school, kept my head down for a handful of years, and fled north.” He shook his head. “She came up here last summer, I ever mention that? She met the boys, came and saw me at work. She even shared a few family recipes with me. But it seemed like the only thing she really cared about was whether I’d been going with any girls lately, and let me tell you, her disappointment stunk up the whole dang kitchen.” He was still bitter about that. The first time he’d seen his own damn mother in nearly two and a half years and she’d barely hugged him, too.

There was pressure at his shoulder, and he realized Jack had reached over to squeeze him. “I’m sorry,” he said. He sounded sympathetic but not pitying.

“It is what it is,” Eric murmured, and Jack squeezed again before letting go. He took a deep breath before continuing on. “Anyhow. If you’re looking to know more about me, let me tell you all about my summers as a camp counselor. Nothing tests a person quite like a cabin of ten-year-old boys, let me tell you.”

 

**

 

After dinner Jack took the wheel again and told Eric to nap, and that he’d wake him when they reached the border. They found a motel in St. Stephen around nine that night. Eric was tired enough that falling asleep in the nearer of their room’s two beds wasn’t hard. Waking up to the sound of shower and realizing that Jack was just on the other side of the wall, however, certainly was.

Neither of them had broached the topic of what was between them. Eric didn’t know how to, quite honestly. This was a whole different thing than meeting someone in a nightclub and following them to a hotel room for some fun, no strings attached. Even that had taken a while for him to get a handle on. And plenty of people like him had found romance, sure, but he had never met someone he clicked with. Not until Jack.

Jack, who exited the bathroom with no more than a short white towel wrapped around his waist. “Morning. Your turn, if you need it,” he said, his voice low and warm, and Eric just groaned and buried his face beneath the covers.

They skipped the motel’s breakfast in favor of the last of Eric’s muffins and were on the road again within an hour. Around two they stopped for lunch, a combined effort; Jack found a nice spot to park beside a lighthouse while Eric made their sandwiches.

The view was gorgeous, untouched snow stretching out far with the occasional interruption of rock and sea, open and wide, but it didn’t compare to the face Jack made upon trying the PB&J.

“ _Tabernak_ ,” Jack said through his first bite.

“Gesundheit?” Jack’s enjoyment was obvious, though. His eyes had closed. Watching, Eric felt warm in a very nice way. “You like it?” He'd used his own homemade whole grain bread, his aunt Judy’s preserves, and Mama’s peanut butter recipe. It was the very best he could offer, and he couldn’t help but feel a little smug about it.

Jack swallowed and, frankly, looked a little alarmed as he did so. “Understatement of the year.” He took another bite and shook his head. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

Eric preened a little. “Of course I know it, Mr. Zimmermann.” He dodged Jack’s hand as he tried to ruffle Eric’s hair, nearly losing his sandwich to the floor of the car.

“We have to drive for longer today,” Jack said later, now sitting in the passenger seat.

“How much longer? Until we’re there.”

“Five hours, give or take.” He set the map aside and pulled out his camera instead, using it to look out the window. “Not that bad, we’ll have plenty of time to make dinner. I know the way once we’re on the island. You’re good driving for the next few hours?”

Eric hadn’t driven in a year, not counting the previous afternoon, but the Bentley handled like a dream. “Sure. Are we stopping by a store before we get in? Not that we don’t have enough food for another few days, but that bread is meant to last our whole stay. And tonight’s a holiday anyway.” The fact that it would only be the two of them together to ring in the new year made it no less special. By no means would it be a party, but some celebration was in order. “How about I put together some punch?” Eric asked, “For something festive. We can see what fruit they’ve got at the store, I’m sure I’ll be able to whip something up.”

He could hear the smile in Jack’s voice when he answered, “I’m sure you will.”

For a little while the only sound was the quiet murmur of the radio, until the camera clicked. When Eric glanced over he saw that it was aimed at him. “Need photos to put in the album,” Jack explained, all too innocently.

Though he’d been reluctant to have his photograph taken the previous day during lunch, Eric couldn’t help but revel in the fact that Jack _wanted_ to take photos of him. That he was being coy about it was only more endearing. “It’s not 1953 yet, you buffoon. They knock away some of your sense out on that ice?”

“Haha. It’s close enough,” Jack said. He leaned forward and set the camera on the dashboard, taking a picture of the road out in front of them. “No one else will know, anyway. Our secret, eh?” And, well. Eric couldn’t say that he minded that at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE'RE MORE THAN HALFWAY DONE. And boy, was this chapter a doozy. I did far more editing and rewriting than either of the first two recieved, that’s for sure. Even with everything I cut, this chapter end up being ~700 words longer than the others anyway. Go figure. But I got it to go where it needed to go, and that's what counts. I’ve also got the first 1,500 words of the next chapter written already as a result of cutting those scenes from this one, so that’s nice. 😊
> 
> I wanted to make a note on Adam’s anger in this chapter, because I feel like I need to defend him? It’s been fairly established, if only through extra content and Ngozi’s own comments, that canonically Jack and Holster don’t quite get on. They’re bros but their personalities clash just enough that they’ll never be close, per se. I love when writers subvert or ignore that (and Jack/Holster is a pairing I actually love, lol) but I think that here, in this setting, Adam would be pretty damn skeptical of Jack’s intentions toward Eric. Justin is too but Adam is more vocal about it, which felt true to his character to me. And why shouldn’t he be skeptical! It's the literal 1950s and they’re worried for Eric’s well-being as well as his literal physical safety. But sometimes they take their concern too far. So, yeah. In this chapter Adam especially goes off a little bit in ways that undermine Eric’s ability to take care of himself and Eric responds angrily. But they mean a lot to each other and they’ll sort it out eventually, I promise.
> 
> Next time: it's New Year's Eve hmMMM I wonder what will happen! And more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they arrive, and Eric takes a chance.

_Wednesday, Dec. 31, 1952_

 

Hours later, Eric blinked awake to Jack’s voice saying his name.

It was a few moments before his head cleared enough to respond, let alone to remember where he was. The passenger seat of Jack’s car, the blanket he’d brought tucked between his head and the window glass. Somewhere in Canada, or Nova Scotia more specifically. “Mmm?” Eric mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. Then, more coherently; “Yes, Jack?”

“Hey there, bud,” Jack said, voice soft. He was still driving and his eyes only flickered over briefly before looking back to the road. Eric realized it was now dark. “You awake?”

The clock in the dash showed it was nearing six. He’d been out for several hours, then. At least he didn’t have to worry about staying up until midnight. “Now I am,” Eric replied, sitting up properly. They were on a dark road, few houses in sight. “How close are we?”

“Ten minutes.” Jack shot Eric a little smile in the dim light. “Almost there.”

Soon they turned onto a narrow gravel driveway and parked. Before them was a plain little cottage, two stories, perched at the top of a stubby hill overlooking what Eric presumed was the ocean. The cottage’s gray clapboard siding was long since faded and weathered. It was a shame the sky was cloudy, Eric thought, or else the stars might have been spectacular. Even so, the view was breathtaking. There was nothing else around them. Little light, little sound. Only the road behind them and the crashing gray tides out beyond them that he could hear, but not see. In between, just the two of them and this cottage.

_Alone_. Truly alone. Eric was overcome by a sudden wave of nervousness. Standing on the cold ground and staring up at this house made the trip feel real in a manner the last two days with Jack hadn’t. The weight of everything between them was only growing. Somehow, some way, one of them was going to have to do something about it. And Eric, who had never thought of himself as particularly brave, or courageous, found that he was a little bit afraid.

But then Eric turned his head and saw Jack watching him take in the house, gentle eyes and that little furrow between his brows, and Eric’s fears vanished. He gave Jack a reassuring smile and watched the tension fade from his face. Jack beamed back and ducked his head, turning to retrieve their suitcases from the trunk of the car.

Earlier in the afternoon Jack had explained how the cottage once belonged to his great-uncle. “My paternal grandmother’s brother,” he said, a little wistful. “Uncle Thomas. He was a good man, I liked him. Quiet. He and his wife never had kids, so they left the house to my dad. My parents don’t spend that much time out here, though. They like the city better. More bustle, more to do.”

It was certainly quiet, and Jack and Eric unloaded the car in silence. Once they were inside Jack was quick to flip on the radio in the sitting room as he passed it, music warming the space between them. After that, it was easy to talk again. “I’m surprised there’s electricity out here,” Eric said as they carried the groceries into the kitchen. “Pleasantly surprised, I should add.”

“Ah, my mom insisted. They had to pay to have it installed but she said it was worth it for the radio alone.” Jack’s eyes rolled, but he looked fond. “My dad was more worried about updating the heating and the kitchen, the bathrooms. It’s still not great, but it’ll do.”

Eric examined the kitchen. It _was_ rather compact, to be sure, but wasn’t he used to a small kitchen anyway? “As long as there’s room for me to bake in here. Hey, my MooMaw’s got a stove just like that. We’ll be just fine, Jack.”

“Good,” Jack said. His back was turned, bending over as he unloaded the milk and eggs into the refrigerator. When he finished Jack straightened and nodded across the room. “Well, the bathroom’s through there, and the stairs by the front door lead upstairs to the other bedroom. But you can take the downstairs one, it’s off the front room. You were going to start that potato soup?”

“That’s the plan. My gracious, it’s past six already.”

“Seven, actually.” When Eric raised an eyebrow Jack added, “We crossed a time zone.”

“I see. Even more reason we need to get going, then. Hop to it, Mr. Zimmermann.” Jack smiled and nodded, heading outside again. Eric pulled his gloves off and set about unpacking the rest of the food, hoping that it would get warmer soon.

 

It did, mercifully, though the heating kicked in slowly. But Jack got a fire going in the sitting room too. Eric stood beside it stubbornly until the kitchen warmed up, ignoring Jack’s teasing at him for doing so. Then Eric finished the soup and punch while Jack put together grilled sandwiches. Working around Jack in the kitchen reminded Eric of baking with him, the difference being that this time they moved around each other in tandem, since Jack wasn’t struggling with his half of the labor. It felt simpler, more intimate. No one was going to barge in on them and they’d figured out how to exist in the same space together. All that was left to do was banter and prepare their meal.

When dinner was ready, they carried their plates out into the other room and ate on the floor around the coffee table. Eric wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and leaned back against the sofa, watching Jack settle in similarly in front of a nearby armchair. He eyed Eric’s blanket but didn’t say anything about it, instead choosing to try his soup.

Eric tried to tear his eyes away from the manner in which Jack’s lips closed around the spoon, he really did, but it was decidedly more difficult when they were sitting this close to the other. “Do you like it?”

Jack quirked an eyebrow at Eric’s question and swallowed. “Do I really need to answer that question, Bittle?”

“Oh, shush. It’s a family recipe, is all, except I did modify it a bit. You’re not much for black pepper, are you?”

Now Jack was staring at him. After he swallowed his second spoonful, he said, “No, not really. How…?”

“Well, you made faces at the chicken noodle soup we had in that diner, for one. Though they _did_ go a little heavy with the pepper, I’ll admit.” Eric raised an eyebrow. “Also, don’t think I didn’t see you avoiding the leftover mashed potatoes I fed you the other evening.” He smiled at the abashed face Jack made at him. “So. For this I took out the black pepper entirely, made up the difference with garlic powder and onion and a few other things. And I think it turned out alright? It doesn’t quite taste the way it did back home, but this was already a simpler version, I didn’t put bacon in either, I’ve gotten so used to cooking without it for Adam that I didn’t even think to–”

“Eric,” Jack interrupted, smiling. “It’s good. And you’re observant.”

“You might think differently if you’d seen the face you were making at that chicken noodle, Mr. Zimmermann,” Eric teased. Jack rolled his eyes. “As it is, I’m glad you like it. You might have guessed that I quite enjoy feeding the people I care about. It wouldn’t do to make food you wouldn’t have liked.”

“I’m not convinced you could make anything I wouldn’t, to be perfectly honest with you,” Jack said. He watched Eric take a bite of his grilled ham and cheese sandwich. “The soup was a family recipe, you said?” Eric nodded. “I guess I can say that sandwich is, too? My mom taught me how to make them. Nothing special, but it’s comfort food, eh?”

Eric swallowed his food before replying. He’d been raised right, after all. “Jack, this is good! You’d be surprised how hard it is to toast bread properly,” he added, thinking of a few disastrous attempts on Justin’s part. Adam, at least, made a perfect grilled cheese. “You used gruyere, right?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty much a basic croque monsieur. My mom always goes all out and makes béchamel sauce to go with it, but I usually mess that part up.” Jack shrugged. “I always burnt it, when I tried.”

“Well, Mr. Zimmermann, this is an excellent sandwich. Your mama taught you well.” Eric took another bite to emphasize his point. “Have you ever had a grilled peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”

Jack shook his head. “Is that… good?”

“Oh, honey.” Lord, Eric loved finding new foods to show Jack. He couldn’t wait to see the face Jack made when they had lunch tomorrow, or perhaps the day after. “Just you wait.”

The last hours of the year passed easily between them. They talked about everything under the sun, it seemed, from Jack’s lifelong tradition of eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches before hockey games to Eric’s earliest memories of baking with his MooMaw. After a while Eric heated up a few slices of the cherry pie he’d packed. He bustled around the kitchen while Jack leaned against the counter and told him about his favorite teammates over the years.

Eventually their conversation lapsed into silence, but even then it was enough to just be. Jack settled comfortably in the worn-looking armchair and turned to a book. Eric stretched out on the sofa with his blanket and listened to the New Year’s broadcast on the radio, only _occasionally_ turning his gaze to watch the way Jack engrossed himself in what was apparently a study of the American Revolution. His eyebrows drew together every now and then, a subconscious response to whatever he was reading.

If he noticed Eric’s eyes on him, he didn’t say anything.

 

It was twenty to midnight when Eric broke the silence. “It’s a little odd that we’ll be ringing in the new year a whole hour earlier than all the folks back home, don’t you think? I’ve never been in a different time zone before. I wonder what the boys are up to. It wouldn’t surprise me if they went and found some party to attend, with drinks and dancing and the rest of it.” He bit the inside of his cheek, remembering the last time he’d seen them. The not-argument. “I hope they have a swell night, anyhow.”

Jack put in his bookmark and leaned forward. “Do you wish we’d gone somewhere like that? With dancing, I mean?”

Eric shrugged. “I’m perfectly fine without. I’m glad to be here, Jack. The quiet suits you, doesn’t it? Better than some big celebration out in public?”

“Yes, but-”

“No buts. You’re far better company than a bunch of strangers, you hear?” Eric propped himself up on his elbow and raised his eyebrows at Jack, who met his expression with a sheepish smile. “Good.”

Jack laid his book on the end table and turned more fully toward Eric. “Would it be bad to admit I was hoping you’d say something like that?”

“Maybe, but I don’t mind,” Eric teased. He sat up properly and scooted down the couch closer to where Jack sat. “Besides, it’s nothing you don’t already know.”

“Yeah.” Jack looked at him with such fondness that it was a wonder Eric didn’t get up and kiss him right then and there. “Even so, I appreciate it.”

They stared at each other until Eric ducked his head and cleared his throat, effectively squandering what could have been _the moment._ He hoped that his face wasn’t as red as it felt. “What would _you_ have done tonight if we weren’t here? If you hadn’t driven up here at all.”

Jack’s gaze shifted away as he considered the question. “Hmm. Shitty probably would have tried to get me to go to his family’s party, but I doubt I would have gone. Camilla was going to go… that would’ve been awkward. And I wouldn’t want to be there anyway.” He shrugged and looked back at Eric. “I would’ve stayed home. Which would be fine. Sometimes being alone is easier than being around other people.”

Jack bit his upper lip for a moment. “You’re an exception to that,” he added, more softly. Eric couldn’t find the words to respond, so he just nodded and hoped that whatever he was feeling was clear enough without. Jack observed him for another moment with an expression Eric couldn’t quite read before standing. “I’m going to go grab more firewood,” he said, pointing his thumb at the fireplace. Eric nodded again. When the kitchen door closed behind him Eric released the breath he’d been holding.

He wanted to reach out, wanted to _do_ something, but he couldn’t decide how. This wasn’t a line he knew how to cross. But he was starting to get the idea that it was going to have to be him. For all the sweet things he said, Jack was acting the complete gentleman. Eric appreciated that, of course. He even adored him for it. And they _could_ wait, Eric knew, and it would probably sort itself out eventually. It didn’t have to be tonight. As Jack came back in with an armful of chopped wood that he set in the wood box beside the hearth, Eric thought about it. They could stay up just a little longer, toast their glasses of punch when the old grandfather clock across the room struck midnight, and go to sleep. They could figure it out tomorrow, or the next day, or even when they went back to Boston. Eric trusted Jack. There was time.

And… yet. They were alone here, and it was New Year’s Eve. Eric trusted Jack, and he was sure about this. Just being here with him, watching the light radiate around him as he leaned over and fiddled with the logs, made Eric _want_ with more force than he’d ever experienced in all his twenty-four years.

When Jack rose from his crouch beside the newly blazing fire, Eric took a steadying breath. “You ever feel alone in a room full of people?” he asked.

Jack stood still, his eyes on Eric. “All the time,” Jack said quietly. His face was serious. “Do you?”

Eric smiled a little. “I do,” he confirmed. “It’s just how things were at home, you know? And even up here sometimes, too. I always feel a little bit alone. And… maybe that’s the way it’s always gonna be? Too many people don’t understand folks like… _us_. So I’ve gotten rather used to being lonely. It’s just what life is, and that’s not always a bad thing. Gives me a lot of time to practice getting my pie filling right, for one,” he added, and Jack snorted softly. Eric quirked his lips in a smile. “Yeah. It’s not always a good thing, either. But I realized something… I realized that with us, it feels like the opposite of that.”

Jack’s eyes were steady on him. Attentive, patient. “How so?”

“Like even when you’re not there, I’m not alone.” Eric stared down at his hands. “Just because I’m used to being lonely, doesn’t mean I’ve ever liked it. But I’ve never known how to fix it, really. I mean, Lord, it wasn’t until I moved north that I even thought I had a chance at being happy.” He glanced up, looked right into Jack’s clear blue eyes, and saw everything he was feeling mirrored back at him. Longing, notably, and even a little bit of fear. It was that second thing that strengthened his resolve. “You make it feel easy,” Eric said, firmly. “Like it wouldn’t be so hard after all, despite everything.”

Eric remained still as he watched Jack slowly, carefully close the distance between them. Their gazes were locked as knelt in front of Eric. “I’ve been hoping,” Jack began, his voice a quiet murmur. His eyes were wide as his hand settled on Eric’s knee. Eric clasped his own hand over it and Jack whispered, “Yeah?”

“Oh, honey.” Eric reached up and cradled Jack’s face in his palm; he was nearly overcome with awe when Jack nuzzled toward his touch. “Me, too. I’ve been hoping and waiting like you couldn’t believe.” He tangled his fingers into Jack’s dark hair and licked his lips. Jack’s eyes tracked the movement. “Kiss me?”

Jack didn’t need to be told twice. It was nothing like a first kiss; Jack was confident and sure, quickly deepening the kiss. He tasted like the oranges from the punch and Eric felt drunk off it, soon breaking away and panting into the space between them, resting their foreheads together. Jack’s free hand came around the side of Eric’s neck and his thumb brushed against Eric’s jaw. “God, Eric,” he murmured. His breath was warm against Eric’s skin.

Eric felt _electric._ He kissed Jack again.

It was a while before they parted. This time Eric hummed his contentment as Jack’s lips moved along his jaw, coming up to whisper in his ear, “Happy New Year, Eric.” He kissed Eric’s temple and waited, pulling back slightly. With some difficulty, Eric focused on the world beyond their bodies and realized that _Auld Lang Syne_ was playing from the radio.

He couldn’t have cared less. “Happy New Year, Jack,” he said, and then he tugged Jack up onto the sofa beside him where Eric could climb atop him and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, and hopefully more, until the world was just Jack and him, him and Jack, _together_.

 

**

 

When Eric woke, he was surrounded in Jack’s embrace.

At no point in the night had they moved away from each other. Eric was pressed against Jack’s side form head to toe, and Jack’s arms were holding him there. Jack’s shoulder wasn’t the most comfortable pillow, but Eric could hardly say he minded. Not when being curled against him like this felt so overwhelmingly _good_.

He was just taking in the weak sunshine coming through the curtains when he felt a quiet huff of air against his hair. “Good morning,” Jack murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent waves down Eric’s spine. “I see you’re finally awake.”

“Mmm.” Eric burrowed his nose into Jack’s sleepshirt, inhaling. He smelled like boy in the very best way. “You’re warm.”

“I told you I wouldn’t let you freeze.”

Eric snorted and tilted his head back so he could see Jack’s face smiling at him. In the daylight he could see Jack’s eyelashes better than the night before, and he was so distracted by this that it was a moment before he realized he’d missed the last thing Jack said. “Wait, hmm?”

Jack chuckled. “I said, I could make breakfast.” He pressed a kiss to Eric’s forehead and Eric couldn’t _not_ beam back at him, sleepy though he was. “You like coffee in the mornings, yeah?”

“Yes, please.” Coffee sounded amazing, frankly, but Eric didn’t want to get up just yet. “Stay with me for a few more minutes, though?”

Jack’s expression grew soft. “Of course.” Eric reached for his face and caressed Jack’s jaw, watching the way his eyelids drooped in response.

They didn’t talk for a while after that.

Jack slipped his hand under Eric’s shirt and traced lazy shapes across his back, which felt so wonderful that Eric thought he’d better find a way to keep himself from falling asleep again. Cataloguing Jack’s features was the obvious choice; his lips, his nose, the sharp line of cheekbones. There was a scar on Jack’s chin that Eric had never noticed before, small and faint, and the corner of Jack’s mouth quirked in a smile when Eric traced his thumb over it gently.

This was it. It was everything Eric had wanted, everything he hoped for. After kissing at midnight—or near to it, anyhow—it had been hours before they finally made it to sleep. There was so much to learn about each other, from how well they fit together to discovering that Jack wanted Eric _just_ as much as Eric wanted him. Eric now knew, without any reservations whatsoever, exactly how passionate Jack Zimmermann could be. There was no longer any hesitation in the way he touched Eric. Being together was as overwhelming as it was glorious, and Eric couldn’t imagine that he would ever get used to that.

But he wanted the chance to try. Eventually, he hid his face against Jack’s chest again. He knew that unless he asked the question in the back of his mind, it was going to hang over him like a cloud. That didn’t make it any easier, though, to put the words out into the world that could break this perfect moment, a moment that until now had been stretching on with no foreseeable end.

He’d _seen_ the way Jack looked at him. Eric was so sure, so nearly sure, that they were on the same page.

“Can we talk about what this is?” Eric asked quietly. Jack’s breath hitched under him. “Just, what we want? And what’s going to happen when we go back home?”

Of course, Jack only pulled Eric’s face back up to look at him. Eric didn’t resist him. “What do _you_ want?” Jack asked tentatively. For the first time since they’d kissed, he looked unsure. Eric immediately felt guilty for worrying him.

So he stared directly into Jack’s blue eyes as he answered, because Eric wanted him to know that he wasn’t afraid. “I want everything with you,” he admitted. There was nothing to lose from being honest. “ _Everything,_ Jack. But I know it’s going to get harder, I get that. I would understand if you didn’t… I know it hasn’t always been… so whatever you want, I just need to know, okay?”

“Oh.” Jack’s expression relaxed somewhat. He cradled Eric’s face with a gentleness at odds with the fierce determination dawning on his face. “Eric. I want that, too. Everything. Anything you want to give. I’m all in.”

“Okay.” A few unexpected tears escaped Eric’s eyes. He was a little embarrassed until Jack kissed at the corner of his eyelids, making him laugh. “Okay. Lord, look at me,” Eric said, and ducked his chin to wipe them away.

Jack cradled Eric’s face. “I don’t want this to end when we go back to Boston.” His thumb brushed another stray tear away. “I mean, God, Eric. I want – I want everything with you, too. We’ll figure it out. Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Eric closed his eyes and leaned into Jack’s touch. “Sorry for worrying you, sweet pea. I just wanted to be sure. Now we can spend the next two weeks enjoying all this. Enjoying _us._ ”

“I’m sure we can think of more than a few ways to do that,” Jack said, and when Eric opened his eyes, he saw that Jack’s face was mere inches away. “Do you think you can wait a little longer for coffee?”

Eric’s smile was slow and satisfied. “Why, Mr. Zimmermann. I suppose that depends on what you’re offering in the meantime.”

It was, of course, a good while longer before they managed to make it out of bed.

 

Later, Eric sat at the kitchen table with a warm mug in his hands and watched Jack fry their eggs and bacon.

“Two whole weeks here,” Eric mused. Now that the hard part was out of the way, he was ready to make the most of their holiday. “So. What’s our plan?”

“For today or just in general?”

“Both. Either.” Eric took a sip from his coffee. “I just wondered what you had in mind. Lord knows I don’t know my way around here like you do.”

“Well, we can do a little sight-seeing, if you want. There are some good trails for hiking. Or we could just stay in all day.” Jack turned to look at Eric over his shoulder and grinned. “I brought board games, and more than a few books.”

“Sweetheart, I love that you love to read, but I can think of a few better things to do indoors than read about war generals.”

“I also brought a book on early Canadian prime ministers, if you’d prefer that.” Eric shot him a look but Jack’s expression was serious. “How about the Fathers of the Confederation?”

“You think you’re funny, mister, but I barely understood what you just said.” Jack finally grinned, turning back to the counter. Eric craned his neck to get a better look at what he was doing. “You’re sure you don’t want any help?”

Jack shook his head. “I told you, it’s my turn. It feels unfair if you’re the only one cooking.” He cracked two eggs into a pan and glanced at Eric again. “Anyway, we can stay in today. Though I think I’ll go for a run in a little while since I didn’t go this morning.”

“Good lord, you’re not serious.” Jack just raised an eyebrow at him and flipped the bacon.

He _was_ serious, to Eric’s bewilderment. After they ate breakfast together, playing footsie under the table throughout, Jack changed and left with a promise to be back within an hour.

Eric took the opportunity to get cleaned up and unpack his things in the bedroom, since they hadn’t gotten around to it last night. Jack’s family were clearly tidy people. The bed took up most of the room, covered in a charming blue and yellow patchwork quilt that was clearly a labor of love. Eric took extra care to fix the sheets and smooth the quilt out. Identical globe lamps with flowers painted on the bases adorned the nightstands. There was little else in the room besides their suitcases, which was why Eric quickly zeroed in on a cardboard photo album sitting on top of the dresser.

When Jack returned Eric was sitting cross-legged in the sitting room armchair, flipping through the photos he’d found. Jack immediately groaned.  “Sweetie, you were such a cute baby!” Eric cooed, tracing his finger over a photo labeled _Jack, Summer 1924._ It was an amateur’s photo, clearly, taken by someone either crouching or sitting on the floor. The Jack in the photo couldn’t have been more than a year old and was sprawled on his stomach across a kitchen floor. To Eric’s bemusement, Jack’s chubby baby hands clutched a hockey puck.

“ _Crisse,_ I forgot about that album,” Jack said with a grimace. He perched on the chair’s arm beside Eric and looked over his shoulder. “Aunt Lettie took most of those. Thomas bought her a camera for her sixtieth birthday, I think? Papa says Lettie just adored me, hence all the photos.”

Eric flipped to a photo labeled _Thomas and Colette Landry, July 1927._ “This was them? The ones who lived here?”

“Yeah, that’s them.” Jack smiled. “Uncle Thomas and Aunt Lettie. They never had any kids, so they enjoyed having me around. Even if I was an ugly baby.”

“You were _not!_ ”

“I’m pretty sure my own parents would disagree with you, love,” Jack laughed, and Eric’s heart swelled. “But here, look at this one.” Jack pointed to a photo of a couple holding a baby. They were standing in front of the cottage, and the man looked familiar. “My parents. And me, obviously.”

“My, you look just like your father, don’t you?” Eric tilted his head up to glance at Jack. “But you have your mama’s eyes, clearly.” The photograph was in black and white, but their eyes were the same distinctively light hue.

“Haha, yeah.” Jack turned to the next page, and then the next one, before pointing again. This time the photograph featured a small child bundled up in a winter coat beside a tree. “Here, this one’s from a few years later. I was five.” He glanced back at Eric. “Do you have any of your childhood pictures?”

Eric sighed. “No, they’re all back in Madison. I didn’t even think to take any with me when I left, to be quite honest. I suppose I could write Mama and ask her to send some to me.”

Jack leaned down and kissed Eric’s forehead. “I bet you were a cute kid.”

“As opposed to now?” Eric teased.

“I can think of a few better words besides cute to describe you now. Or last night…” Jack trailed off, a smile spreading across his face. “Would _beautiful_ be pushing it?”

Eric’s face grew hot, and he pushed Jack away from him even though what he really wanted was to pull Jack closer. “Go wash up. If you hurry maybe I’ll let you help me with the pies I’ve got planned.”

“If _that’s_ what it takes.” Jack made for the bathroom, grinning, and Eric couldn’t even come up with a good comeback.

 

**

 

The next morning after breakfast, Jack ushered Eric back into the bedroom and told him that he had a surprise. He sat Eric down in the middle of the bed before pulling a box from his suitcase, taking care to shield it from Eric’s view.

“I know you don’t like it when I buy you things, but.” Jack was trying awfully hard to hide the mystery gift behind him, turning his body when Eric craned his neck to attempt to peek at it. “But. This is as much for me as it is for you, eh? So it doesn’t count.”

Eric raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure that’s how it works, sweet pea.” Even so, he exaggerated a sigh and held his palms out. “Alright, you ridiculous boy. Lay it on me.”

Instead of handing it over, Jack laid the cardboard box on the bed in front of him. Eric immediately knew what it was from the design printed on the top. “Jack Zimmermann. You bought me a pair of ice skates?” Eric opened the box, revealing a pair of brown leather skates with tan laces.

“They’re hockey skates,” Jack said. He’d dropped to one knee on the edge of the bed and was half-sitting, half-standing as he watched Eric with a wary expression. “I thought you might like to come skating with me? There are public rinks in Sydney and Glace Bay, but I know of a few ponds that should be frozen over.” He smiled shyly. “We would have more privacy?”

Eric made grabby hands for Jack and pulled him down to kiss him. It was an expensive gift, and in most other circumstances Eric would make a bigger fuss of trying to refuse it, but he understood the significance of Jack wanting to skate with him. “Honey, that sounds wonderful. Thank you.” He smiled up at Jack as he took his hands and squeezed them. “Do you want to go today?”

 

A few hours later, as they got into the car, Eric realized that this was his first proper introduction to Cape Breton Island. The landscape was even more beautiful in sunlight, untouched snow stretching out in all directions and frosting many of the trees and bushes; the sky was wide and blue, the air crisp and sharp. Winter in Boston could be beautiful, but it was rarely pristine.

“For all that I’ve come to love living in a city, I do appreciate the countryside,” Eric sighed happily. He stared out the window as Jack drove. “The one perk of growing up in a small town.”

“What was Georgia like?”

“Green,” Eric said. “Warm. And alive, too; I don’t quite know how to explain it but the world just seems to breathe there. A few of my mama’s brothers live outside of Madison, and I always loved spending time on their land. My Uncle David has a couple hundred acres, some of it for farming and the rest left as is. Hiking around through the woods was always a time, if you could handle the mosquitos.” He wrinkled his nose. “Folks up north like to complain about the humidity, but y’all haven’t experienced dressing up in your Sunday best on a hot August afternoon. Lord, I don’t miss going to church on those days.”

They turned onto a smaller road, dirt instead of packed gravel. “Was your family into all of that? Church?”

Eric laughed. “Into it? Oh, honey. Everyone down there is ‘into it.’ We went every Sunday. Did your folks never go?”

“I mean, sure. Sometimes. My parents usually brought me on Christmas and Easter.” Jack shrugged. “I never minded. My mom was raised Episcopalian, but she stopped attending services regularly by the time I was born.” He glanced sideways at Eric. “Her family stopped talking to her for a few years after she moved to New York to pursue acting. From the way she tells it, she was so busy with her career that it just fell by the wayside, but I think she felt trapped, growing up. Though that wasn’t just church, it was everything else too.”

“Wow.” Eric thought back to the blonde woman he’d seen in the photo album, grinning wide as she held her baby on her hip. “I suppose that makes sense. I mean, I’ve barely gone to church since I left home, and it’s not particularly something I’m itching to get back to, either.”

“Yeah. My grandparents still live in Connecticut. Old money, high society. We never spent a lot of time visiting them, but I’m named after my grandfather, so. There’s still love there, I guess.” He snorted. “They were over the moon when I married Camilla. Apparently our grandfathers were in the same graduating class at Yale.”

“And your father’s family? How was he raised?”

“Catholic, he’s the youngest of five. It was never the most important thing to him, though. That was always hockey. And then family, I guess. He had a happy childhood. He’s a happy person, generally.” Jack gave Eric a sly smile. “His hockey nickname was Bad Bob, but off the ice he’s as friendly as it gets. I don’t think there’s a mean bone in his body.”

“But it was still hard for you, growing up,” Eric said quietly. Jack’s eyes flickered back to him, and he nodded.

“It was,” Jack admitted. “But it was never his fault. My parents did right by me, Eric. They didn’t always know what they were doing, but they did their best and it’s easier to see that now.”

It was then that Jack pulled to the side of the road and parked. “We’re here,” he said. Eric must have looked skeptical because Jack pointed at the trees. “There’s a path there, see? The spot I have in mind isn’t far.”

They hiked fifty feet through sparse woodland until they reached the edge of the pond. “Oh wow,” Eric breathed, looking around. There was clearly an island out toward the middle of the ice, judging by the irregular oval of snow with several trees growing out of it. The pond itself wasn’t all that large, but there was still plenty of room to skate. The world felt more like a postcard than it ever did in dreary, dirty Boston.

Jack checked that the ice was thick enough while Eric got situated in his new skates. He took careful steps onto the ice while Jack was busy lacing up his own. “Good lord,” Eric muttered, taking a tentative glide. He _had_ done this before, but it had been a while. Ten years, at least. Luck must have been on his side, though, because he didn’t fall on his face.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise when, after Eric made it all of eight feet out onto the ice, Jack skated up behind him and caught him in his arms.

“Jack!” Eric exclaimed, “If you make me fall–”

“I won’t let you.” Jack’s arms tightened and he buried his nose against the side of Eric’s face, burrowing into the space between his jaw and his scarf. Eric squirmed, but only because he _didn’t want to fall._ If he’d had worse balance, he would have already tipped over. “I’ve got you, eh?”

“ _Jack Laurent Zimmermann_ , let me go or I’ll revoke your pie privileges.”

“There are four pies waiting in the kitchen, do you really think you can eat them all by yourself? I wouldn’t have pegged you as one to waste food, Bittle.”

Eric managed to twist out of Jack’s arms this time, and he turned to poke Jack in the chest. “I’ll feed the neighbors, then.”

“Nope, the closest house belongs to a couple who spend the winter in Ottawa with their grandchildren.”

“I’ll feed the squirrels!” He attempted to skate away from Jack, but Jack only caught him around the waist again. They were both laughing. “Or the birds, I’m sure the birds would just love that pecan pie, _Jack come on now-_ ”

It didn’t take Eric long to gain his footing after Jack finally let him go. They skated in lazy circles, hand in hand, until Eric decided to test himself and skated haphazard laps at a slightly faster clip. He’d always been a fast runner. This was different, of course, but he thought back to the hockey games he’d watched in Boston. The players skated and dodged like it was nothing. Could he have done that, if he’d grown up on skates the way Jack had? If instead of football Coach loved hockey, and they lived somewhere with an ice rink and a league for him to learn in? He imagined weaving around the players, handling the puck like he was born for it, passing it to Jack. Eric was smaller than the average hockey player, sure, but speed and agility had to count for something. If nothing else, it probably would have been fun.

And then there was the matter of Jack. What would playing with Jack be like? Eric wouldn’t call Jack’s demeanor on the ice _graceful,_ exactly, but that wasn’t too far off. He was clearly in his element. While Eric never would have marked Jack down as anything less than confident, this was a new thing entirely. There was an ease to the way he moved that Eric had only ever glimpsed in short, rare moments: Jack, grinning as he wrestled with Shitty on the sidewalk in front of his home. Jack beaming shyly at Eric, reaching over to flick off the radio before walking him backward to the bedroom for the first time.

It brought new meaning to the reality that Jack’s career in hockey was now over, the fact that this was one of the few places he was ever this comfortable, this happy.

 

Eric brought it up later, when they were back indoors. He was sitting on the floor as near to the fireplace as he could get when Jack returned from the kitchen with two mugs of hot chocolate. “Can I ask you about hockey?”

“What about it?” Jack joined him on the floor; he set their mugs down before pulling Eric to him. They arranged themselves so that Eric was sitting with his back to Jack’s chest, one of Jack’s arms around his waist.

“Are you doing okay without it? I know it was your whole life, and Jack—I can’t begin to understand that, not really. My only point of comparison would be if someone took baking away from me, but that’s still not really the same.” Eric grabbed onto Jack’s wrist and squeezed. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I just couldn’t help but wonder about it today, watching you out there on that ice like it was your favorite place in the world to be. But I want you to know that I’m here, if you do.”

He could feel Jack sigh. “We can talk about it.” His other arm circled Eric’s waist and he dropped his forehead against Eric’s right shoulder. “It… hasn’t been easy, no. But in a lot of ways I’ve been adjusting to life without hockey since last April. I knew ending my career was a real possibility, even over the summer while my leg was healing. It just took me a while to accept it. I didn’t do so until recently, actually.”

“What changed?”

“A few things. I talked with my dad over the holidays about it. He retired when I was a kid, but it was because he _wanted_ to. I would have given so much for that, to go out on top like he did. But he still had good advice about moving forward afterwards. He said he doesn’t regret that he chose to stop playing, not even a little. It gave him more time to focus on the other things that really mattered to him.” Jack hummed. “The other thing that happened was that I met you.”

“Me?” Eric felt his heart pounding, and he willed it to stop. He could only imagine that Jack could feel it too, the way they were sitting. “What about me?”

“Look at how my life was going when we met. The divorce was closer to over, my career over but not officially, yet, and these two things were all I’d spent the last half of a year thinking about. Looking forward, I had _no_ clue what I wanted or what I was going to do. It was more than a little terrifying.” Jack’s arms tightened around him. “But then I met you, and it gave me something to hope for. Something I _wanted_ , something to work for. I still don’t know what I’m going to do with my life after hockey, but I know I want you to be a part of it. It’s not the same thing, but.” Jack released a ragged breath. “Maybe it’s better. This. It’s somewhere to start, at least.”

Slowly, Eric turned around in Jack’s lap, arranging himself sideways so they could see eye to eye. “I think that’s a great place to start, sweet pea.” And he did. Maybe it should have been too much pressure on Eric, knowing that Jack saw him as the beginning of the rest of his life, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t really that different from what they’d already decided—Eric wanted everything with Jack, for as long as they could have each other.

Jack met his gaze with such hope that Eric’s heart damn near broke at the sight of it. “Yeah? It’s not too much?”

“You’ve gotta start somewhere.” Eric flattened a hand against Jack’s chest, felt Jack’s heartbeat beneath his fingers. It was pounding fast, just like Eric’s own. “Baby, I’m so grateful for you, too. You don’t even know the half of it. I’m right here, right where I want to be, even though I hardly know what I’m doing, either. We’ll figure it out together.”

Jack laced their fingers together and rested his head against Eric’s. “Okay.”

“I’ll go skating with you whenever you want, whenever you miss it too much.”

“Okay.”

“And you’ll help me find a new job when we get back to Boston. In a bakery, if I’m lucky.”

“You will be. You’re too good not to.”

Eric bit back a smile. “I certainly hope so, sugar.”

“Mmm, I _know_ so.” Jack kissed Eric’s temple. “Or I could just buy you your own bakery.”

Eric swatted Jack’s arm without pulling away. “Jack Laurent Zimmermann, you’re not even allowed to _think_ about doing that. Drink your hot chocolate before it gets cold.”

“Haha. Okay.” But he didn’t move, and really, Eric was more than fine with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that the chapter count has gone from five to seven. *shrugs!* What can I say? The story needed to be longer. So, that’s going to be one more chapter of the story proper (the total coming to six) and an epilogue that switches over to Jack’s POV. ;)
> 
> That's it for now. I hope you all liked this extra long chapter! Comments are always welcome. <3


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